It’s been 17 days since the passing of Regulations 1 and 2 in the United States. These 17 days have been rough. I record my thoughts while rocking back and forth in the confines of a shed in my once luxurious backyard. This shed is my only refuge from the outside world of increasingly pompous beings that now, due to their physical condition, have the emotional stability of a drunken one-year-old child.

My stomach lurches as I stand up to peer through a gash in the wall. Someone has entered my yard and begun defecating on it. The delusional government touts the success of these regulations while its citizens view them as “poo”-posterous. People have started using others’ yards as toilets to avoid any fines of their own, and I’m sitting here with a knot of constipation more horrid than any food poisoning scare. Across the country, the demolition and removal of toilets continues day in and day out. Each moment, I grow fatter, yet I cannot stop eating for fear of death, though I will admit death is sounding more and more appealing due to the rancid scent America has acquired.

The government’s plan involves eliminating human restroom use in hopes of decreasing the overflow of sewage and increasing the productivity in each citizen’s workday. Instead, the land of the free is now the land of toxic waste with an average continued life expectancy of two days. Devastatingly, this is not the toxic waste that produces superheroes. It’s just plain human waste. How’s that for an American dream?

We cannot pee. We cannot poop. In this nationwide epidemic, schools, businesses, and life itself are shutting down indefinitely. My pores reek of the anguish my insides feel, and my ears are subject to the groaning sound echoing outside at all times. I attribute this groaning to secretive release of bladders and bowels, distress from each person’s utter betrayal against their own body, and death by implosion.

As I write, I hear the police ransacking my house for signs of bodily fluids. I feel as though my insides are consuming each other. I hate to admit my body is failing me, but I can no longer contain these outlawed fluids. Death is reaching its hand out to me. And all I have to say is S***.