The humble commode, a center of modern household convenience, but too little appreciated. Commodes have a special place in my, um, heart, having lived in areas on mission trips where outhouses are a luxury, or when one was available, an unlucky ratio of 1 toilet to 36 persons. While indispensable when one has a gastrointestinal…er… disorder, they are violently worshipped; then ignored when all is well in one’s “body suit” (yes, a rather mind blowing word, yet gentler then the low class “meat sack”). Growing up in my parents’ house, we had one tricky toilet that liked to overflow and took an exceptional dislike to me. I still remember the sick feeling of anticipated dread when I knew it as a-comin’ on over. I also have the vivid but unlucky experience of falling butt first into one at the tender age of 2 where I was stuck with only my head and feet visible for what seemed like a day until someone heard my screams. So to all commodes who unfailingly do their job year after year, I immortalize you with the following comedic “poem”. You have a crappy job, but do it well…..
Porcelain throne, gleaming receptacle;
humble servant to human need.
Your place in the home most respectable;
through you, our bodily functions thoughtlessly freed.
Unappreciated, accepting waste year after year
(as long as you do your duty full).
But we fractious humans violently fear
the day your flush does lull.
You have cradled both behind and face;
your cool surface a welcome rest when ill.
Our ancestors would give all to replace
the unsavory areas they once filled.
Thomas Crapper, though much maligned,
as your maker, I bow and cheer!
He has saved many a behind
with his water closet invention.
And I raise my glass in a hearty “hear, hear”
at the relief of human retention!