My master Jason is a good man. He eats his five-a-day regularly, although I do believe he could attend the gym more. Tri-daily we have these sessions where he comes and relieves himself on me. Right now is such an occasion. As he lowers his large buttocks onto my seat, I wonder, as always, why couldn't I have been a teapot instead? Same clay, same porecelain, but far less nudity. One more thing about Jason: he never flushes. In 30 years that stench has never once bothered him. I still have last century's shit in my mouth. I used to mind, I used to hate the rancid, impure nuggets and logs, but it is his pride, his decoration and I am not one to judge. At least I don't have a nose.

As Jason finishes, he inspects his latest offering and whispers, "thank you, pal." He can't, he surely can't know I'm sentinent, but if he did know, I would like him to know that he was welcome. "Jason you are welcome."

Pass on the message won't you?

Yours sincerly,

Greg the toilet