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How Much Do You Make?

I come from a long line of ancestors that "made" stuff.
My father was a Local 40 Ironworker for over 35 years.  For clarity on what that job required, one of his union delegates was in that iconic photograph taken above Rockefeller Center in 1932.
My brothers are both electricians.
My relatives in Ireland were either fishermen or worked my family's farm in West Cork.
I had an uncle who worked at the Waterford factory, designing, and crafting fine pieces of crystal.
My grandfather worked in a factory for both Jameson whiskey and Guinness stout.  This means that at one time, my dearly departed papa personally made all the 3 components of any Irish weekend… The third being crippling Catholic guilt, of course.
My mother was an accomplished seamstress and potter in her tiny village.
I have three older sisters.  One could never build a whole fruit store, but she can sure make a banana stand.  The other sister can't wrestle, but you should see her box.  And finally, my oldest sister is great on the piano, but really sucks on the organ.
Then there's me.
I make nothing that is tangible.
I spent 25 years on Wall Street sleeping my way to the middle, but I left there with nothing to show.  All of my accomplishments and failures were reduced to a couple of numbers on a P&L that was ultimately filed away in some corporate cloud.
Now I do some radio and podcasts every week that just drift off into the ether.
I write a blog every now and again, but I will never revisit them once they hit the archive.
My point is- Outside of the occasional gourmet dish and/or alcoholic drink, I don't physically create anything that is tangible or permanent… And THAT is the main reason I adore taking huge shits.
I am a fat guy with a weird diet, and the stools that pass through my colon at times are sights to fucking behold.  The only reason I know this is because I turn around EVERY SINGLE TIME I LEAVE SHIT to stare into the bowl and admire what I created.
Let me be more exact- I go no further than looking at my dumps.  Even more specifically, I don't pick up, smell, or (God forbid) taste anything that passes through me.  People who do that typically suffer from a disorder called coprophagia, and some real weirdos (usually Germans) go even deeper into fecal freakdom by introducing their own shit into sexual acts in a fetish called coprophilia… To be 100% clear, I don't suffer from the former and I certainly don't participate in the latter.  I simply take a couple of extra seconds post-bowel movement to see what demon I just exorcised.
Maybe you do the same thing as me, or maybe you're a liar… Either way, it's something I do religiously.
The last time I mentioned my bathroom habits it was for a blog where I outlined another minor disorder I suffer from.  One where I insist on being naked when I take dumps…
This time I bring up my most personal practice in order to lodge a short formal complaint against a piece of technology I wish was never invented.
The fucking auto-flush toilet.
I can be sitting there naked for 10 or 15 minutes, just absolutely grunting out something that I think will be impressive.  Something that I believe will potentially make me feel less guilty about what I have been shoving in my mouth because there is some symmetry with everything that I have been pushing out of my ass.
BUT… As I am nearing the finish line and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I am nearly scared off my seat with the sound of a familiar "Ba-WHOOOSH!" below my exposed undercarriage.
And with that familiar sound, I know what was once mine to admire was arbitrarily stripped away from me by some random toilet robot.
I could quickly turn around and try to catch a fleeting glimpse of the often blood-stained tail-end of what was just flushed, but I am in no mood to move fast.  So instead, I just sit there… Disappointed as Ray Liotta after he found out that bitch Karen flushed the rest of his cocaine…
I couldn't even get a clear preview into the wolf bait I dropped before the random workings of auto-flush swept it away because my belly is so fucking big that I cannot readily just peer down beyond my breadbasket into the space between the rim of the toilet seat and my thick meaty penis.  So whatever was flushed is a goddamned mystery that will never be solved.
And I know the reasoning behind the technology.  Sometimes people using public bathrooms not only like to stare at their own shit, they also like to leave it in the bowl for others to "enjoy"… Which is the fucking worst, obviously.  There is nothing more jarring than desperately having to use a public restroom, and as you rush into a stall, the first thing your eyes are greeted with is a bubbling cauldron of piss and shit, but there has to be a better way.
Perhaps the flush reflex can be triggered every time the stall door opens and closes, or perhaps people can just be more decent.
Whatever it is, I petition the brilliant minds at Kohler and American Standard to put their "heads" together and find a better way… My happiness, and the happiness of my cousin Jenny, hangs in the balance.
Thanks in advance, and take a report.
This week I try my hand at Blackjack on ExtraLarge… Only on BarstoolGOLD.