Our heroes are people who buck the system.

Guys (and gals, sometimes) who defy their commanding officer; who refuse to go by the book.

The kind of macho dude who's not afraid to jump between buildings in a flaming Trans Am while blasting an Uzi backwards out the window.

Men (and women, sometimes) who can't wait to get blown to safety by the wake of an ever-expanding corridor of fire.

People who don't hesitate to outrun ancient ruins, moments away from disaster, as it collapses around them. They don't take any crap; they live life their own way. These are the people who influence our life; these are our heroes.
 
In other words--- fictional people.

          ​Some guys feel the need to talk to you when you’re in the restroom. No idea why. These guys somehow don’t realize what goes on in this room, the reason you’re both there. They don’t see the imaginary line, the one at the men’s room door where the talking stops. It’s an extension of the hallway to these guys or another gathering place like the break room. Standing there, in the can, trying to get things done and this chatterbox wants a conversation.

          Sometimes it’s at a bar with a complete stranger: “Yeah, boy, how ‘bout those Cubs?” Tryin’ to make an awkward situation friendlier, maybe, with some stilted chitchat. I don’t think that’s what’s meant by public washroom. This must be what it’s like in prison or in the hyena cage at the zoo, socializing while taking care of business.

          Mostly it’s guys at work. “So,” the guy starts, the guy who sits down the hall from you by the printer but now he’s up close at the next urinal, grinning. “How do you think the presentation went?”

          Of course, he expects an answer. Long pause, keep it short. “You never know” usually works.

          Ancient Romans used to poop together. Outside, in giant Poop-a-toriums, I guess they called them. Row after row of stone benches with holes cut in them for their butts. Row after row of Roman butts lined up like at a ballgame, only with grunting. When in Rome, as the saying goes, poo as the Romans poo. This was the height of civilization at the time for these guys. Their empire crumbled soon after.

          So thousands of years later, back in the john, the commode commentator’s still yakking, over his shoulder, “that’d be some big account, if we got it, huh?” Yeah, right, great. Gotta go! Gotta leave this small, smelly room. Talk to you next time you get the urge.
​
          Et tu, bathroom buddy.

​          When you’re born, you’re like a brand new car, pretty much, rolling off the assembly line. Okay, so the assembly line is your mother and you don’t roll off so much as you’re extruded, but you get the idea. And sure, you’re covered in gunk and nasty bodily fluids.

          But the nurse takes you in back, like any good car dealership, puts you through a wash, and you’re good as new. Literally.
 
          You know that new car smell everyone loves so much? You have that when you’re a baby, too--- that new human smell. All the bells and whistles work when you’re a baby, all your features, for the most part, are at their factory settings: the alarm and the heated seats. Your upholstery is so soft. 
 
          A newborn’s odometer has, like what, two miles on it? People are always extra careful with a baby. They watch where they park it for the first three or four years because they’re worried about that first scratch.
 
          Those first ten years of your life you’re still trying to figure out where your controls are, what all the buttons do. “What happens if I pull this knob?” After 15 or 20 years you can still drive yourself pretty hard: cold tacos for breakfast after a night of tequila shots. You can handle any treacherous condition--- dirt roads, snowstorms, college.
 
          After 30, 35 years, you don’t realize it but your warranty’s run out. You didn’t get the extended warranty because extended warranties are for suckers! Then wouldn’t you know it, that’s when stuff starts falling apart. Your brakes aren’t what they use to be and your transmission starts to slip.
 
          By your mid to late 40s your chassis gets creaky. Rust starts to show, maybe you’ve got some body damage. You could really use someone to pound out those dents and give you a paint job. Even with regular maintenance, the tune-ups and the oil changes, you’re still piling on the mileage. You tear a rotator cuff, maybe, or your tires (along with other parts of you) go bald.
 
         This would be the point in the life of a car when you’re thinking: do I keep sinking money into the ol’ clunker? Or do I spring for a newer model? But people don’t get that choice. You’re kind of stuck with the ride you’ve got. And you’re dreamin’ if you think you’ll somehow become a “classic.” You’re no ’69 Camaro.

          “You’re built like a car. You’ve got a hubcap diamond star halo.”
                       ---Marc Bolan, T. Rex

          What's your odometer say these days? Are you duck-taping plastic wrap to your taillight when it cracks? Do you have to jiggle the key in the ignition to get started in the morning?
 
          Well, whatever your current Blue Book value, make sure you sign that donor card so they can gut you for parts before the scrapyard where they’ll crush you into one of those big cubes.