It was a lonely Sunday morning and Sandy was sitting on his couch. His mind was glued to the blur his unfocused eyes cast on his retina. He admired that blur. He was wearing red checkered boxers and a white vest with three holes in it. It was 10 AM and Sandy had moved only once in the two and a half hours since 7:30. At 7:30, he had parted his thighs a little so that his fingers could scratch his balls. His bored love for his retinal blur was a fortress behind which hid a secret anticipation.
Sandy had not slept a wink in the last forty eight hours because he was waiting for his teleshopping delivery to arrive. The black, sleek and 'lite' edition of the Crap-O-Matic ™. Sandy was filled with warmth just at the thought of the arrival of the Crap-O-Matic ™. Because from that day on he wouldn't have to flush an empty commode everytime he visited the toilet. His ecological guilt would not torture him for wasting all that water.
The Crap-O-Matic ™, as seen on TV, was a ring the shape of the golden throne seat. One had to place it over the seat, where it fit, and then sit on the Crap-O-Matic ™. This is how the TV commercial described the magnificient device to have worked. The more the pooper controlled his or her poo pressure, the harder the Crap-O-Matic ™ manufactured poop. Sensors were planted on the upper surface of the Crap-O-Matic ™. The sensors determined the pooper's poo pressure control by gauging his or her blood pressure, the tightness of his or her ass clench and a variety of other factors which the manufacturers did not reveal because it was a trade secret. The more number of times had Sandy watched the commercial, the more he had desired the technological marvel that the Crap-O-Matic ™ was.
He wanted to own one so bad. He sold his television on ebay and received the payment on his PayPal account. He then proceeded to log on to the website of the teleshopping network to place an order for the device of his dreams, for which he paid from the same PayPal account. After forty eight hours of staying awake, the morning of the promised delivery had finally come.
At 11:30, the doorbell rang. A man wearing brown overalls, that was the uniform of the package delivery service, showed up at Sandy's doorstep. The brown of the delivery man's uniform reminded Sandy of poo. The poo reminded Sandy of the tightness with which his own ass was puckered, which then reminded him of the sound of fresh poo being manufactured that he had heard on TV. He smiled for the first time in the last eleven years as he signed the delivery receipt and shut his door.
It had been eleven years since his pot had felt the texture of roughage. Even his flush tank had been feeling equally worthless recently. The two were facing a severe identity crisis and an inferiority complex the size of a small island in the Pacific. Their self esteems had hit an all time low recently. They felt like the illiterate country bumpkin housewife of a highly educated womanising slash gay city businessman. They were just not sure of themselves. But the truth is that in this metaphor, Sandy was neither a womaniser nor a homosexual. He was plain asexual or at least he chose to be one.
Sandy installed the Crap-O-Matic ™ on his toilet seat and tightened its clamps. He then proceeded to drop his boxers to his ankles and rested his ass. The moment his ass touched the Crap-O-Matic's sensors, they wen™ad. Their input was considered by the processor, which rushed into an overclocked state trying to calculate the amount of poop to be manufactured. In a matter of microseconds, the processor sent its output to the crap generator. The amount of poop that was generated was HUGE. It was the biggest dump ever.
Meanwhile, Sandy's commode exploded into an orgasm as the poo slapped along its surface. The flush tank moaned and jumped with anticipation like a ticklish woman, who hadn't gotten laid in over a decade, was blindfolded and her inner thighs were being pleasured with a feather till she felt release. A giant whoosh of a whirlpool swept away the creation of the Crap-O-Matic ™ and the two bathroom fixtures felt closer to Sandy than they ever had.
The Crap-O-Matic's first dump was so gianormic that Sandy ended up using its entire battery life in one go. He plugged the charger in and while he waited, he walked into his kitchen and made himself some toast, which he smothered with a tablespoonful of butter. Sandy glowed as he continued to devour his toast and butter with immense satisfaction while his eyes kept stealing glances at the charging indicator LEDs of the Crap-O-Matic ™.
Sandy was in love, for the first time ever in his constipated life.
Epilogue: One fine day, after eight years since that happened, Sandy just vanished. Nobody ever saw any of him ever again. When his family finally broke into his house, it stank. They followed the stench and a line of castor oil bottles into the bathroom, which had its door blown off. The insides looked like a damp cave. All the walls were brown like painted with poo and plants were growing out of it. The Crap-O-Matic™, though, was still there, just as shiney and just as new. The commode and flush tank on the other hand had a few brown spatters on them.