Steven Weissman

Dear kindly, decaying old man: Our neighborly relationship is not one of casual conversation—we're not even on a first-name basis—and so I have come here to urge you to seek medical attention regarding the dank and evil smell coming from your bowels. Our close living arrangement forces us to share a coffin-sized toilet room at the end of the hallway, in which you've not behaved in a very neighborly way, old man. It seems you and I meet each morning, and a wealth of information is exchanged as our eyes meet. You saunter past in your guilty slippers and frail bathrobe, knowing full well the horrors you've just shit out and left for me. The smell is so dense and so pungent, it's like being strangled by a boa constrictor as I hurriedly squeeze out my contribution into what resembles a dirty Mexican punch bowl. There's something seriously wrong with your guts, old man—your bathroom crime scene trumps that of a Walmart ladies' room stillborn.