I turn the handle of the door, checking to make sure my horrible son, Johnny Jr., whom I truly do hate, is by my side. He is not. I find him in the floor’s study lounge, tattooing a terrified man’s face. Rats. He must have found the tattoo gun I stole from his mother, my beautiful ex-wife, whom I miss desperately.
I slip the poor man a crisp tenner to apologize, and drag Johnny back to the bathroom. “This is a bathroom I'm really looking forward to reviewing, Johnny,” I say, “and you better not keep acting like the accident you are.” We enter the bathroom. I am impressed. The sinks are clean and inviting, the mirror large, and the wall behind the mirror pleasantly patterned.
Oh, shit, I forgot -- my IBS. Today is my one day a week when I am able to relieve myself. I feel something monumental coming, so I run into one of the stalls, not feeling good about leaving Johnny unsupervised. As I close the door, I see Johnny tearing all his clothes to shreds. Whatever. I'll make his mother pay for them.
I settle myself in, and pull out my phone. Not twenty seconds into stalking my ex-wife’s MySpace, I hear a scream. It's Johnny. “What is it this time,” I ask exasperatedly. Last time he screamed like this, it was because I sold him to some men of questionable character.
“Father, help me! I’m sorry I’m such a worthless child,” Johnny says, before making a horrible gurgling sound. This is surprising. He’s never apologized for anything before. Still, I’m skeptical. “Shut up,” I reply. Johnny continues to hoot and holler, and suddenly goes silent. Okay, that’s very strange. This kid’s never quiet. I burst out of my stall to see my one and only son DROWNING IN A PUDDLE OF URINE underneath the urinal. I guess some fatherly instinct kicked in, because I dove in and rescued my son from that miniature ocean. In that moment I forgave my son, but I will never forgive the bathroom on the sixth floor of Van Pelt.