Frederick Goldensnapple of Texas writes:
Hands down, from ages 12 to 18, my house was the most popular place to shit in the neighborhood. It wasn't the toilet paper, although it was 2-ply. It wasn't the lighting, although my mom always did have the eye of a true Texas aesthete. And it wasn't the location-- my house was a good half mile by foot further away than anyone else's. It was the sink. Or rather, what lie hidden beneath it.
My friends discovered it before I did. And for weeks, could it have been years?, I couldn't figure out why all my childhood pals insisted on making my house the location for their afterschool dump du jour. In hopes of unravelling this mystery, one day after everyone had left, I secluded myself in the commode, determined to figure this thing out once and for all.
Other than mom's impressive collection of lotions and potions and dad's harsh-smelling aftershaves there was nothing out of the ordinary in here. Was I missing something? I counted the tiles on the floor. And recounted them. I then proceeded to catalogue everything in the room with a zeal to rival missieurs Coopers and Lybrand themselves. Still nothing.
In desperation, I flopped on the floor and landed face to face with the cabinet beneath the sink. But what was this? A false bottom? There, in the two or three inches between the cabinet and floor was porn, glorious porn! Hot Bottoms and Playboy! Elated, I flipped over on my back and poured through every magazine then and there.
To this day, my mom still tells her friends about the Civil War-esque case of dysentery I came down with between the ages of 12 and 18. Until, of course, I switched to soy milk in college and everything cleared up.
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