“He’s coming…”

It begins the way it always does: slamming footsteps across a long hallway.

The morning ritual of a man moving urgently—from bedroom to bathroom.

Inside, the appliances scream.

“Oh no!” they cry in unison.

As the thudding gets louder, the bathroom descends into chaos.

The toothbrush immediately faints and rolls into the sink.

The shower stiffens and starts crying water.

The fan wobbles violently, trying to take off and fly away.

And the rug barks and scampers into the corner.

“He’s coming,” whispers the doorknob.

The room falls into a focused panic.

“He’s going to put me in his mouth,” the toothbrush hisses, wide-eyed and bristling. “With coffee breath. And then—then he’ll just leave me wet and horizontal outside my cup like some common utensil.”

“At least you’re not involved in surgery,” snaps the nail clippers. “He mutilates himself with me. And he doesn’t even throw the nails away.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. You two got it made,” groans the pumice stone from the floor. “He rubs me on his feet, you know. You don’t know what it’s like to be stepped on.”

“Cry me a faucet,” mutters the sink, who’s been leaking steadily for the past seven years. “He always makes my nose run. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in ages.”

From the hallway comes a low moan.

“Ohhh… ohhh… my stomach is so messed up.”

The atmosphere in the bathroom shifts—panic turns cold.

The shower gasps.

“He’s going to drain me of all my hot water! I’ll freeze… because of this bastard.”

“Oh, relax,” says the fan.

“At least he turns you off. I haven’t had a break since 2021.”

That’s when the toilet gurgles.

“You all think you’ve got it bad?” he says.

The room lowers its eyebrows.

“I oughta back up and drown every last one of you.”

Everyone groans.

“Not this again,” mutters the soap dish.

“Oh shut up. No one wants to hear your squeaky-clean record. Must be hard being a prude.”

“No, go ahead,” sighs the towel rod. “Let’s hear from our resident martyr. Who definitely doesn’t want attention.”

The toilet bubbles from the bottom.

“Every day, this man takes a shit. Right into my mouth. Have you—have you thought about that?”

The bathroom appliances look away, too ashamed to meet his eye.

“What about you, soap?” the toilet spits.

The soap slips to the side as a hush falls.

“Does my pain make you bubble?” the toilet sneers.

“This guy makes me eat toilet paper,” he adds.

“…fuckin cannibal..” plunger mutters just out of toilet’s earshot.

Toilet paper, who looks like he’s on death’s door, coughs from the corner, having lost nearly 95% of his mass.

“I… I forgive you,” he whispers. Then coughs again.

“Do you know what it’s like,” the toilet continues, “to feel Chipotle? To carry the weight of a man who considers Hot Pockets a balanced meal? You all get washed. You all get replaced. But I stay. I endure, like the iron throne.”

An uncomfortable silence settles in.

Then floss coughs.

“Well… at least you get flushed?”

“Sometimes!” the toilet starts shaking violently.

“Other times I’m nothing more than an afterthought!”

“I’m… we’re sorry, Toilet,” says the towel rack, finally.

“No you’re not!… No you’re not!”

The doorknob clicks softly as the man grabs the handle.

“So don’t any of you bitch,” the toilet growls, “until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”

“Walk?” says the soap, raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like you’re doing any walking.”

“What?! Come here and say that to my face! I’ll flush you!”

The toilet begins gurgling, louder now, shaking with rage.

Then—

SLAM.

The door flies open. The man enters, looks around, and sees the toilet gurgling.

“Oh, what the fuck, man?!” he shouts, grabbing the plunger and jamming it into the toilet.

“This fuckin’ toilet is a piece of shit!”

The soap slides quietly into the sink.

Please like, common, share and tell me what you think. For context, my buddy and I might film a skit, this is just the seed of the idea.

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