Everyone in the Airport Restroom Has Ass Cancer

As I traverse the vast expanse of the great United States, I inch ever closer to ticking "Drop a Deuce in Every State" off my bucket list. However, I can't help but observe a disconcerting pattern throughout my adventures. It's no secret that American diets are the worst they've ever been, but nothing makes it more obvious than hearing a poor bastard blast his life away in a neighboring airport restroom stall while his internal organs painfully juggle the Panda Express he wolfed down just moments earlier.

It wasn't that long ago when these facilities sang the innocent tunes of rustling newspaper pages while two or three confident grunts gave way to a healthy, proud splash. Sure, you sometimes had a neighbor draining 30lbs. of spare ribs from his layover in Dallas, but this was the exception rather than the rule. These days, multiple stalls are occupied by tenants on the brink of death, screaming in agony as they struggle to evacuate lunch without prolapsing their anus.

Gone is the glorious institution of comfortably resting on a public toilet in the age-old tradition of catching up on yesterday's news. Instead, our bathroom sanctuaries have fallen victim to the clutches of diabetic Americans boasting more rolls than a Texas Roadhouse. These individuals have transformed a once dignified ritual into the twisted and sadistic sport of unprecedented violence and physical damage upon porcelain.

It's now a showdown of colon versus toilet where the colon remains undefeated.

Likewise, this isn't an isolated phenomenon. There isn't an airport restroom in the entire country immune to the epidemic of eight men simultaneously moonlighting their assholes as volcanoes, subjecting modern plumbing to the Herculean task of digesting torrents of toxic-riddled feces.

I can't help but feel like an outsider, disconnected from the tumultuous game of thrones occurring in each and every stall. Why is it that my bowel movements can peacefully settle beneath serene waters before a flush? How is it that my asshole doesn't commit an unexpected explosive force akin to a Texas dairy farm? Why does my backside not suffer from the distressing flow of thick, bloody mucus, indicating critical liver damage and the upcoming installation of a colostomy bag?

Even though it's disheartening to acknowledge that every individual in a public restroom, except for myself, seems to be grappling with some form of debilitating ass cancer, it won't deter me from achieving my goal of depositing wholesome dietary endeavors down the chute of every state in America.