Sitting on the toilet at his en-laws' house Saturday afternoon, a gentleman heard a tap on the door.
"Do you need anything?" he thought heard his wife say.
"What?" I, I mean HE, definitely he, responded, only half-listening because he was finishing up "Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars" while his bowels slowly cranked out the revised edition of last night's dinner.
"ARE YOU OK?" she followed, in a voice that stopped a few miles short of being a genuine inquiry of health and well-being, and resided firmly in the territory of accusation.
"Sure, fine," the guy said, continuing to play his game while continuing to negotiate his contract.
After five or 10 more minutes, who knows, maybe a half hour - time flies when you're running drug deals and hits in Liberty City - the guy hears the knock again. This time not so much a tap as a deafening, jackhammer-like pounding.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?" It's his wife again. Or it could be the Easter Bunny, or Gisele Bundchen. It doesn't really matter because nothing is getting this guy off the pot at this juncture, and all outside distractions have melted away so he could focus on the task at hand. I mean, this is the end of the freaking game, in one of the hyper-intense, multi-leg final two missions! This demands the full, rapt attention of a man on his throne. Besides, the reservoir is still cranking! What does she expect him to do, respond to her summons immediately, forsaking his past 40 minutes, OK maybe an hour, of work, put the DS in sleep mode and end the proceedings with a hasty, dirty pre-wipe just to appease the whims of his better half? I mean, no one in the living room's going anywhere, right?
So the guy beats the game, concludes his fecal deposits and then hears about what a jerk he is the rest of the night. Is this a happy ending because the man has stood his moral ground, or a tragedy because sticking true to his morals has caused him great suffering? You decide, fair reader. You decide.
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