I never thought I’d be writing to you, but, well, I guess I was wrong, because here I am. It’s ironic that your fine column would be the thing that got me into trouble, but you at least can get me out. You see, I can’t get off of my toilet and it’s your damn fault.
Every Thursday, I grab my U-Reg and get ready to feel the love. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping on Wednesday nights, even, because I’m so excited to read your stuff the next morning. When the paper finally comes out, I grab one and race home like the wind, like a deer in heat even. Then I sit on the couch and force myself to read through all the crap so that I will enjoy your wisdom even more. After I muddle through all the opinions and such, I finally prepare myself for your golden font of wisdom.
So I take my paper with me to the bathroom and sit on the john while I read it. So I think you can see my problem. Last week, I was so caught up in the plight of that poor, brave person that wants to run around naked that I decided to try to think of a way to help (I hate to say it, Reid, but you really didn’t offer much in the way of constructive advice for that courageous trooper), but it was very difficult to come up with any meaningful advice (I should have known better than to try to tackle the problem that stumped you). Before I knew it, I’d been on the throne for twenty-seven hours, and my legs were completely numb and immobile. So now I can’t get off. It’s just like Danny Glover in that Lethal Weapon movie, where he gets stuck on the toilet and Mel Gibson has to help him off. But I don’t have a Mel Gibson to help me. Reid, won’t you be my Mel Gibson? Please?
I know how you feel. I am afraid, however, that your problem is not as simple as that of Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon. You see, Danny was only stuck on the toilet because there was a pressure sensitive bomb attached, so that when he moved: Kablam! All Mel Gibson had to do was use his speed and agility to throw Danny and himself into the bathtub, where they safely avoided the blast. Your problem is of a more complicated nature.
Seeing as how you’ve probably been sitting on this toilet for a week by the time you read this (and if you’re reading this, why the hell didn’t you just ask the person who brought you the paper to help you up, you moron?) your problem is of a much more serious nature than I normally address. While you may think that your problem is physical, that your legs are asleep and when the circulation is restored, you’ll be able to walk again and all will be well, I argue that your problem is deeper, psychological.
You see, John, it’s obvious to me that you idolize me. You have projected all of your admiration for your parents, professors, and other betters on me. In so doing, you have declared yourself unworthy of any respect and admiration by others, hence your need to read my column while in the most private and vulnerable of positions: sitting on the toilet. You have put me up on a pedestal, one that I very well may be deserving of, but it is nonetheless unhealthy for you.
By attempting to improve upon my advice to our mutual naked friend, you simply enforced your feelings of inadequacy. You were, of course, unable to come up with a more fitting response than mine, because deep down you don’t believe that you are capable of or qualified to help others. You believe that you are the lowest, most despicable creature, not worthy of respect or gratitude from anyone, and not even worthy of a place among the other people of the community; hence, you subconsciously chose to make yourself immobile, imprisoning yourself in the toilet stall.
You must realize, John, that while you cannot hope to rise to my level, you are surely fitting of the company of the majority of the people in this community. Rise up from your toilet prison and walk, John! You are a man, not an animal! Don’t, however, raise your sights too high. I’m afraid that “King John” may be a bit too lofty a goal for someone who can’t even comprehend the simple existential dilemma of a society in which nudity is unacceptable.