Thread by @ViragArpad

It’s Tuesday morning in an open office and life is completely pointless.

But even though you walk through the valley of fake smiles and menopausal screeches, you fear no evil, for you know that salvation is here at the end of the corridor.

The toilet. The last refuge.

A place to escape the prying eyes of NPCs, to sit and enjoy ten minutes of Twitter feed and tranquility, broken only by rasping sounds of flatulence and painful grunts of elder colleagues.

Not anymore.

No #GreatPlaceToWork can allow for private happiness.

All feelings of joy must be a collective activity. Holding a sign to encourage women leaders. Slurping coffee while commenting on the weather.

Orwell introduces a word for this in Newspeak: OWNLIFE, meaning individualism and eccentricity that the Party cannot allow.

In much the same way, bowel movement is a pleasure far too individualistic and exclusive from other members of the community to be permitted.

It's not enough that you work. You must suffer *constantly*.

If you can hide from it, why bother having you back to the office again?

How, you may ask? Have they introduced mandatory colostomy bags? Buckets with filthy mops next to the desk?

Oh no no no. This is far, far more advanced. This is something Dr. Mengele wouldn't dream of.

Take a look at the image below, shudder and dread.

Do you see it?

Of course you don't. It was meant that way.

You will sit and have your enjoyment.

Until you make a wrong move and start a series of events that will make you wish you were never born.

In front of you is the most perfect example of 'techno-crapitalism', a term brought to you by @moldbugman.

Techno-crapitalism perfected to a degree that makes Judas cradle or breaking wheel look like children's toys.

Take a look at the thingy on the wall.

Having a normal toilet is an unthinkable faux-pas for a company in good standing. Hands free WC flushing control sensor with concealed cistern is a must.

Look at where the sensor is located. Inches from your shoulder whilst sitting.

And it's HIGHLY sensitive to any movements.

You will sit down and relax, unaware of the creatures in the interior design business and their worship of human suffering.

You will enjoy your mobile phone for a minute or two.

You will reach for the paper and the sensor will detect the motion of your elbow.

Two gallons of water will burst from the wall at light speed and wreak vengeance and abuse on your buttocks and balls.

Your behind is wet and filthy now. Panic kicks in.

Has the water raised the contents of your bowels and smeared them over your genitals? Will anyone notice?

Will anyone on the floor be able the smell the horrid stench from your pants and finally give up on you as a coworker, friend and a human being?

As you frantically wipe yourself hoping it’s just water, you are unable to think about the ingenious design of this torture device.

The toilet paper is on the same side as the sensor.

The three second delay in flushing is perfectly timed so the next wave arrives at the exact moment when your hand is between your legs scouring your sorry behind. Now your shirt sleeve is soaked in filthy toilet water.

You wanted peace and solitude, being alone with your thoughts and maybe an interesting blog post?

Welcome to Hell, mate.

And bear in mind - Hell does not simply *end*.

The tank is refilled in just seconds, you have little time to grab more papers. Hurry up!

You must use your right hand to reach for them, hoping that the distance from the wall will be sufficient.

Wrong.

A butterfly flapping his wings on Madagascar could activate this sensor. For the third time you have been sprayed on by sewage.

Hate and panic enter your mind, oblivious to the nature of corporate bureaucracy you wander "who would design something like this?!"

You do not understand. This is a feature, not a bug.

You have tried to avoid the suffering, you must pay the price.

Your hands are now wet and you are afraid to pull your pants up.

The only solution is to sit completely paralyzed until everyone leaves the toilet, then stagger into the common area, wash yourself and pull your pants out.

As you do that, you wonder what if someone walks in.

Could you explain to Peter from accounts receivable that you’re not a mongoloid pervert twisted to the point that rubbing your excrement-stained genitals with paper towels in front of the mirror is the only thing that can turn you on?

Will he call Jackie from HR and report this?

Nobody walks in. You managed to avoid the worst of all fates.

You leave the toilet. It does not end there. The anxiety will follow you.

You will sit there for hours thinking if fecal matter has somehow reached your clothes, and now the foul molecules are drifting into...

..the nostrils of Lucy, the only hot girl on the floor. She decided to sit right next to you today because there's also mandatory hot-desking.

You will not know.

And as the working day is nearing it’s end, there is nowhere to go but home and examine the state of your behind.

The results will be irrelevant.

One way or the other, you are humiliated.

You said to yourself numerous times that life does not need to look like this and this damn place will never take your soul.

It had however taken the contents of your bowels and thrown it back at you.

Righteous anger will pass over you and through you. You will enjoy a fantasy of punishing someone for this.

But whom? Does the designer have a name? Does the plumber who installed the sensor have a face?

You'll watch the new episode of The Expanse on Amazon Prime.

It's good.

You will prepare your ironed 20% nylon H&M shirt and a matching wool tie. Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a a rain jacket. Eat oats for breakfast. They're good for your digestion.

You will learn to respect the Gods of the Toilet Tanks.

For the next thirty years you will sit on that toilet in complete terror, a catatonic corpse in a state of paralyzing fear that the Gods of the Toilet Tanks' wrath might turn on you and a fecal volcano will burst, eliminating the last remnants of dignity you had.

You will come to understand - this is not just a random design mistake.

This is how it had to be.

The hands free WC flushing control sensor with concealed cistern was assigned to you, and only to you. The day you die, they will replace it with a normal flushing tank.

The end.