The Confessional

As a Catholic, taking a big, nasty dump has always reminded me a little bit of going to confession, and I say that with nothing but the greatest respect for the holy sacrament of reconciliation.  Like walking into that quiet church on a Saturday afternoon, I enter the bathroom at work with a sense of foreboding, more than a little apprehensive about what I am about to do.  After ensuring the coast is clear, I step quietly into the little stall at the end and carefully secure the door behind me.  Then, after some opening formalities, all the crap just comes flying out.  Bless me Father for I have sinned, I ate that entire bag of store-brand oreos after the kids went to be last night.  I had four slices of cold pizza and a pop tart for breakfast and, it appears, I had some corn along the way.  With Your help, I will sin no more.  After some concluding formalities, I step out of the stall feeling like a new man: lighter, happier, filled with confidence in the human capacity for self-improvement.  There’s a spring in my step as I make way over to the sink to wash away any last remnants of my former, sinful life. 

 

Check in with me an hour later and you’ll find I have visited the vending machine in the break room.  There’s a fresh Ho-Hos wrapper in my trash can and my right hand is mostly hidden inside a half-finished bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.  Ah, the spirit is indeed willing, but the flesh is weak.