There is No Spoon
by JP Relph, 3.49am May 10th 2022

When it happened, I was having a shit. Not a quick one either (two conkers and done). This was monstrous, solid excreta resulting from four days of curry-caused constipation. It required every muscle group from neck to ankle, and extreme dedication, to birth it.

I was pushing for all I was worth, face burning, sweat popping. Gripping the sides of the loo with white-knuckled intensity. I was so close to stealing relief from my rectum’s clutches, when several random things happened at once. The shower burst to life, spraying water everywhere; both sink taps opened fully, filling the room with steam; the toilet flushed: shocking me with an undesirable (and frankly premature) douche. Then the demonic arse-monster plopped into the swirling water, and I howled with pleasure.

Which is when several previously inanimate objects rose into the air, started spinning and flying. Temporarily weakened from combat, I sat back, agog as several toiletries collided above me. Bubble bath and shower gels slapped at each other. Bathroom crap lifted off the shelves, came for me. I was headbutted by my battery-powered toothbrush, punched in the solar plexus by a scummy, ceramic soap-dish. I raised my hands to protect my face as a questionable bog brush hurtled towards me, finally screamed,

‘FUUUUUUUUUCK!’

There was a crashing, splashing, horribly squelching noise and then silence, and a bit of dripping. I thumbed the steam from my glasses, opened my eyes. Prised my buttocks from the clench of the toilet bowl, where it seems, I had tried to retreat to. I popped free with a moist sucking noise. The bathroom floor was awash in sudsy, fragrant water and the debris of crash-landed bombs and bottles. I rose slowly; my bowels pinched with shock (but gratefully empty), pulled soggy underpants up. Then I was grinning, joyfully kicking aside Mr Matey, ecstatic (and only partly from the successful voiding). I air punched,

‘Fuck, yes!’

-o-o-o-

I never questioned my absolute certainty that I’d gained superpowers.

I’ve a lifetime of study in that field (The Colleges of Marvel and DC). It was evident to me that the massive physiological strain my body was subjected to as I battled on the bog, coupled with new acne medication (never trust Big Pharma) had produced a spontaneous mutation. Like, of my genes. Which all resulted in an, admittedly uncontrolled, telekinesis.

Holy fuckpants - I was Jean Grey, Eleven, Scarlet Witch (whoa, hang on, they’re all girls). I’m Professor X! In the following days I engaged in robust scientific testing. I needed to research what other abilities I had acquired.

Suffice it to say, I can’t fly. The flattened bush behind the shed, a surprisingly thorny fucker, can attest to this. As can old Mrs Trotter from next door, who had witnessed my plummet as she was letting her Pomeranian out for a wee, and suggested that, if I was “trying to top myself”, I’d need a higher roof. When I said I wasn’t suicidal, she determined I “must just be a complete twat then”. Which is harsh. I wanted to say I’d seen her Pomeranian shagging her wizened old leg, but I just went inside for Savlon.

Later, I extrapolated that I can’t run any faster or breathe under water. I came close to coughing my lungs up into the bathwater though, and I burped Mum’s Fairy Rose bath lotion for days after. Furthermore, I found I can’t invoke invisibility - my sister in skimpy underwear, slapping and screaming “pervert dickhead!”, still haunts my dreams. There’s sadly a total absence of super strength too, and the sprained shoulder I got trying to deadlift my Fiesta also proved I’m not invulnerable. I know the paramedics were laughing their asses off, as they dragged me screaming from under the bonnet. Anyway, I got two sets of results in one that day. Yeah, fucking marvellous.

I was battered and bruised, but I wasn’t deterred. OK, so I only had one superpower, but it was a cracker. I just had to learn how to harness it. Wrecking the bathroom is one thing, but if I had an uncontrolled episode again, anything could happen. Like, I’d trash the kitchen or cause a plane to drop on the house. Or make Mrs Trotter’s randy Pomeranian explode (oh, wait a minute….no, of course no).

As it happens though, trying to recreate the internal trauma induced by having a humongous shit, without actually needing a humongous shit, is pretty impossible. There are clearly muscles, so deep, deep inside, that just don’t respond to a fake-faeces event. I did try. I squeezed my barren bowels so hard, I sustained burst capillaries in my left eye, and haemorrhoids. Yeah, proper stinging butthole berries, and the reward? My great telekinetic masterpiece? My toothbrush whirred for ten whole seconds and I was power-washed with another freezing douche (I think this one bleached my anus). So, yeah, disappointing.

I refuse to accept it was just an aberrant event. Not having it. I just need to figure out the exact mechanics of it. It’s literally mind over matter, right? Probably all telekenetics started with their own matter, before moving onto buildings and gates to netherworlds. In any scientific endeavour, there will be sacrifice. A commitment to the work. So, it’s curry tonight, and tomorrow night. A spot of constipation for dessert. Then four days of brewing. I read that experimental repetition is key to success.

I’m Professor X-in-training! I’m one good shit away from world domination! Well, certainly bathroom domination, for now. Hey, no-hands teeth brushing is pretty badass, and I’ll have a bumhole that’s verging on sterile.