An Open Letter

To the Person Whose Bathroom Vents are Connected to Mine:

I don't know if you live next to me or above me. I don't know if you're a man, woman or genderless child. You could be a one-legged midget pre-op transsexual for all I know.

What I do know is that when you use the facilities, you grunt like a wildebeest in heat. We've all seen it movies and tv shows. But in real life no one makes those kinds of sounds while loosing their bowels. At least not on the regular basis that you do.

I am a frequent and often violent bowel-mover. But seldom, if ever, do sounds of pain and aggravation escape my lips, even in my own private commode. It's like people who grunt while working out. Ultimately, that's just energy you're using to grunt instead of poop. That, sir/madam, is valuable pooping energy you're wasting.

I am writing to you not because I particularly mind the sounds of exertion wafting into my bathroom, but because I worry. I worry about the health of your digestive tract. I worry that your technique is going to cause an inguinal hernia. I worry about the heat of the flamus anus that undoubtedly plagues your cornhole. And yes, I suppose I am slightly annoyed that I frequently am in the shower and am subjected to your pants and moans and groans.

Call it prudish if you like, but I am of the firm belief that dumps, even the painful ones, should be taken stoically: jaw set, teeth clenched if necessary, eyes straight ahead. Or reading something if you prefer. But all these verbal ejaculations and vocal hysterics are a bit much.

If you'd like to borrow some Pepto Bismol, please don't hesitate to ask. I'm in Apt. #XXX.

Thank you for your time and best of luck with your colon.

Sincerely,

Desperate Pickle