In the last ten years I have developed irritable bowel syndrome, a condition that has progressively worsened, rendering me toilet ridden with frequent bouts of chronic diarrhoea. In the same time, Marvel have made 473 films. A coincidence? I think not.
Those 473 films have led us to Avengers: Infinity War, a colossal crossover that brings all your favourite Marvel characters together, including Black Widow, Benedict Wong and Cristiano Ronaldo. It is the culmination of all their profound, narrative arcs, which have been gurgling in the studio’s stomach, waiting to erupt like one of my biblically wet shits.
What emerges is a monumental arse explosion that epitomises everything that makes most Marvel movies absolute patience-testing wank. In a predominantly computer-generated orgy of overstuffed action, Infinity War miraculously manages to be simultaneously senseless and pointless, with the high-stakes drama merely serving to set up yet another sequel. ‘Will it never end?’ I asked myself in agony, much like I do when pouring my hot arse gravy into an innocent public toilet. And then it occurred to me: there is quite clearly a link between the continuation of these films and the behaviour of my toxic bowels.
This latest film sees crazed MacGuffin collector and our Lord and Saviour Thanos scour the cosmos in search of six Infinity Stones, colourful pebbles that, once glued to a magic glove, will allow him to wipe out half of the universe’s population, which is exactly what would happen if I ate nothing but chicken tikka naga for a week. Yet, ironically, it is the Avengers’ attempts to stop Thanos that will ultimately prolong the franchise and thus perpetuate the suffering of my sphincter.
As the audience around me were fecklessly sucked into the endless onslaught of claptrap, mostly triggered by certain characters simply turning up, my gut growled aggressively, as if rejecting the events on screen. I left my seat to relieve myself, a noxious guff cloud trailing behind me and smacking the faces of spectators, who wilfully consumed it like the film’s atrocious dialogue.
Before flushing the toilet, I stared back at the brown devastation, mesmerised by its milky majesty. It was there that I had a sort of epiphany. The bum piss spoke out to me, pleading me to care for characters like Iron Man and Captain America, who it told me have endured meaningful journeys in the build up to Infinity War, which haven’t in any way watered down everyone’s standards and expectations. But then I realised I was talking to literal shit.
I wiped down the cubicle walls and then got a massive McDonald’s.