The automatic bathroom scent-spritzer is beeping. It needs refilling, man. My echolocation was fuckola’d the other day so I thought the beeping was coming from inside a stall, and I’m all: What exactly is happening here. What is that beeping and how does it relate to defecation. Is somebody monitoring something gross with an electronic device. Is somebody entering a weblog entry on their Palm Pilot while voiding their bowels. Just then, the Angel of Inspiration appeared before me, just atop the urinal, smiling beatifically, a honey-scented wheeze escaping through the sizeable gap between her teeth.

THE ANGEL OF INSPIRATION: The size, shape, mass, and texture of a He-Man action figure, fully poseable, non-toxic. Curvaceous & decadent. Wraparound sunglasses, glowstick, sunburned, bottomless. A voice like Jell-o. Always seems to be on my side but maybe has an agenda.

“That could be you in there!” she shrieks, and I press my finger against her tiny lips, saying: “Shh, baby, keep it down, ha-ha, daddy’s at work.”

But then, muffled: “Just think about it! For me!” and she disappears in a glitter-choked cloud of smoke. And now I’m thinking, not for the first time: Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should take my rightful place on the throne and do my writing there. Maybe Andy Rooney’s statement that weblogging is akin to infants smearing their own feces on the wall is not only correct, but something that can be taken literally.