Some day, in the future, I hope to be friends with someone who owns a Litter Robot. You know, one of those automated contraptions that tumbles your cat’s turds around until they disappear into a parallel universe. It has been a dream of mine, ever since finding out about them early last week, to take a dump in one and record the reactions of the unfortunate onlookers.
Everyone standing around, mortified, disgusted and angry. As I laugh, and look awkwardly confused about what I did that was socially incorrect. I won’t even be drunk at the time, so there will no excuse for my behavior.
Should I look them in the eyes as I do it? I think I should. It would be my way of saying, “Hey! You bought this fancy toilet and installed it in your living room! Why would you do that if you didn’t want people to use it?
“Oh, I see how it is. We all have to sit around pretending your cat’s shit doesn’t stink because of this magic high-tech box, which it most certainly still does, but you’re too good to put up with the smell of your guests’ shit right next to you! You know what that makes you, Carol? A hypocrite! You’re a hypocrite, Carol!”
And then I would storm out, all blustery and self-righteous. After making my point, I would expect an apology from Carol before I would let her invite me to dinner again.
You have to draw the line somewhere, and befouling a dryer sized, tech heavy, litter box designed for the rampant cat situation of sad single women is a good place to start. It’s called integrity.
—DG
Inside Doug's Head 