My favorite son Rak took a vile shit in our hotel suite while we were on a lovers’ respite together about 6 years ago. This was after proclaiming that he “never take[s] a shit while on vacation” and “only shit[s] at home”.

Needless to say I’ve since disowned and divorced him. However, despite his absence, his lies, manipulation, deceit, generous phallic proportions and poor grades have continued to weigh heavily on my mind. I’m ashamed to say I can’t so much as look at a toilet without being shaken by the ghost of his perfidiousness; and, as such, have been debased to depositing all of my bodily waste into my second, least-favorite son (named Brandus Mirandus after the confederate general of the same name)’s cat (named Mittens after my late grandmother)’s litter box. Mittens, flummoxing enough, has grown fond using the toilet in my stead. Brandus shits outside.

This painting, titled Rak squeezing one out is a desperate attempt to conquer my feelings of resentment towards Rak and all fecal receptacles the world over.