Master of my own universe

Bathroom Ruminations:
Does bathroom time lend itself to better thinking?
What kind of thinking goes on in a bathroom?
Can I write a masterpiece while in contact with porcelain?

Of course.

THE PROOF
(or "World Domination, Phase One")

Sitting up early one morning, our hero can barely keep his eyes open. "Should have gone to bed sooner," he thought. He had been up late wasting time with the television and forgot his commitment to start his writing career in the morning. Not so different from a hundred other times he had made similar promises. But this time he forgot that the clock was still set from the morning before. When it woke him at five he almost ignored it. But the song was annoying and the radio was out of reach. "Serves me right," he thought. "Guess I'll start some coffee and see what happens."
He didn't really expect to write anything. He was only going to sit there with his mug and satisfy the urge by imagining what he should say. -He didn't expect to write anything. But as he blinked the screen into focus he found himself drawn to the keys. Suddenly he was typing. His fingers flew around the letters; words appearing magically on the display.
The subject of his story? A man (we'll call him Bob for now) in the bathroom with a laptop, privately satisfying a craving- a craving he had suppressed most of his life - the urge to create.
Creating in this manner, by necessity, calls for privacy, but Bob doesn't mind. No one will find his stuff interesting anyway, and he really only wants to please his own critical eye. As long as no one else sees it, he likes his work.
So our sleepy writer works on. He stops for a moment when the coffee stops burping and has a cup. He considers whether to put something mildly profound about "java" in his story, but BOb is working at night, and in the bathroom, so it's not likely that he would be drinking coffee.
"I would drink coffee on the toilet at night" he thinks. But who would believe it. And besides, coffee is over-used in poor fiction. -And this is definitely poor fiction.

Had enough?
Classic literature move over.
(Phase One continues)

We join our sleepy writer an hour later as his deep thoughts are disturbed by a loud braying sound.
"The house is falling! No, wait, that's me..." he said to himself. "Good thing I'm alone."
Unfortunately, the creativity has crept back into whatever orifice had been hiding it. Aparently there is an olfactory connection to his writing ability. And judging from the sound that woke him, there's not enough Lysol in the house to get the masterpiece back on track this morning.
“That’s OK, I’m getting cold anyway” he thinks. “Probably ought to wear something when I do this.” So our hero shuts down the machine and heads back to the kitchen. As he reaches for the pot, intent on one final shot of wake-up, the phone starts to dance.
“Damn it. Who wants me this early on a Saturday?”
And suddenly our happy author realizes: It's not early. And it’s not Saturday... This hits him just as he answers the phone and hears his boss breathing on the other end of the line.
“Uh, ..hello?”
“Do you plan to support yourself with honest labor? Or have you decided to sleep all day and hope for the best from the snob fairy?” Boss man sounds unhappy.
He needs this job, and yet before he can stop himself: “Did you think that up all by yourself, or did your lovely wife say it first?” Then, just to seal the deal: “You remember your wife- short, dumpy, needs a chin wax?”
Silence.
Then...
Short and to the point: “Your last check will be in the mail. Don’t come in for it.”

And so our foolish friend, desperate for a little common sense, begins his new career a little earlier than he intended.