Professional Potty Trainer

The most important medical voice of our time

has recently published a book titled You’re Pooping All Wrong 

and I’m quite pissed off 

 

because that’s basically the only thing

I was absolutely, one hundred percent sure 

I was doing right. 

 

Now, I’m 200 pages deep, 

hating this Harvard grad who thinks she knows me 

and studies the way gut and brain communicate. 

 

But little does she know, 

my brain and gut communicate

like teenagers on a bad prom date,

 

and the fact that 

the American Gastroenterological Association

gave her a gold star 

 

is not something she needs to brag about.  

Yes–– I realize I sound like an insecure, jealous, 

bitter ass–– but you must consider, please, 

 

she took the only thing I had left.

 

 

It is a Monday and I am a Teacher with Skin of Undefined Thickness

Hour 1

 

Student tells me I should have styled my shirt

to hide my stubbiness and I want to shout:

everything about you was unsolicited! 

but one, I don’t think she would get it

and two I don’t want to admit she hurt my feelings.

 

Hour 2
 

Student tells me that last night

he was playing Tomodachi Life,

when his Jesus Mii told his Mr. Verhelle Mii 

that he was the dullest crayon in the box and

I told him that was the clearest God’s voice has ever been.
 

Hour 3

 

Turkey sandwich

from the gas station 

for lunch, Suckers!

 

Hour 4
 

Student destined to join the Navy 

tells me he wishes he could run me over 

with his boat twice. Isn’t once enough?

But even budding military men like

to be sure.

 

Hour 5

 

Bad joke about my height. Bad joke about

my non-existent girlfriend. Bad joke about

my bald spot. Bad joke about my

studio apartment. Joke so bad I can’t remember it.

Bad misogynistic joke that still would have been bad

twenty years ago.

Bad joke about the ungraded tests

piling up in corners of the classroom.

Last one is not so much of a joke. 

 

Hour 6

 

A Russian teenager walks up to my desk, 

translator in hand, 

to ask me in imperfect, perfect English

are you broken inside Mr.

and I tell her no,

because that’s what teachers tell students

in an attempt to rub on

another layer of crisping skin.

 

Hour 7

 

I drive home 

and it is quiet in my car

except for the laughter

now boundlessly releasing from my belly

because damn–– they’re hilarious

and every day

I love them more.