In the beginning, there was constipation, and it was dreadful. Knights in their armor sat upon their cold porcelain thrones as though they were enduring a siege, their faces redder than a tavern drunk at dawn. Physicians spoke solemnly of “anorectal angles” and “intestinal kinks,” but nobody listened, because the groaning was louder than the science. It was as if the Creator Himself had tied humanity’s innards into a sailor’s knot and walked away whistling.
Then, in a moment of either divine inspiration or pure bathroom desperation, a humble stool appeared. Not the tavern kind sticky with ale, but a curious platform that slid neatly under the throne. This relic was the Squatty Potty, and it was glorious. With knees raised and posture restored, the colon straightened like a trumpet, and the dragon of constipation was finally slain. Trumpets of the other kind also blared, echoing triumphantly through castle walls.
The first to wield this artifact was Sir Regular of Bowel, a knight of dubious hygiene but immense courage. Legend says he marched into the village square, raised the Squatty Potty aloft, and cried, “Behold, the key to smooth passage!” He then demonstrated its powers before a crowd of horrified peasants, most of whom were not prepared for a live performance. Yet when the deed was done, the peasants cheered, for they had witnessed something far more impressive than jousting: the miracle of proper elimination.
Soon, a fellowship was formed. Lady Swift of Movement, renowned for her lightning-quick departures from the privy, joined the cause. Duke Smooth of Passage, whose surname was suspiciously appropriate, became treasurer. Together, they spread the gospel of squatting across the land, knocking on castle doors, barging into monasteries, and giving awkward demonstrations in banquet halls. Monks were so moved that they began to illuminate manuscripts not with saints and angels, but with diagrams of knees above hips, gilded in gold leaf. Priests debated whether to canonize the stool, but decided God’s plumbing was mysterious and best left alone.
Of course, every prophecy requires a mystical beast, and this one had its unicorn. Not a noble charger of battle, but a pastel creature foretold to reveal the stool’s glory by producing rainbow sherbet from its hindquarters. Many scoffed until the prophecy came true in an advertisement so unholy that medieval scholars would have called it heresy: a prince feeding rainbow ice cream to a unicorn while extolling the virtues of squatting. The world was forever changed. Bakeries collapsed, sherbet sales soared, and children asked troubling questions about dessert.
As word spread, the Squatty Potty became more than artifact—it became status symbol. Kings commissioned golden editions studded with jewels. Aristocrats boasted of bamboo models hand-carved by Himalayan monks. Peasants, lacking funds, propped their feet on turnip crates and declared it folk medicine. Even philosophers weighed in. A faded parchment once attributed to Descartes reads, “Squato, ergo sum,” though modern scholars suggest it was probably a wine stain.
Wars raged, empires rose and fell, but in bathrooms across Christendom, the stool endured, patient and faithful, waiting quietly beside thrones of oak and porcelain alike. Archaeologists excavating ruins in Yorkshire mistook one for a toy chest, until a Latin carving revealed its true nature: hic homo cecidit suaviter—“here a man dropped sweetly.”
And so we arrive in the present day, where the Squatty Potty reigns not in castles but in suburban bathrooms and college dorms. It is humble, it is absurd, and yet it unites humanity in a single truth: when your knees are high, your troubles are low. We laugh at it, we hide it from guests, and still we return, grateful, aerodynamic, and slightly wiser.
For in the end, the Squatty Potty is not merely a stool. It is destiny, molded in plastic, stamped with legend, and occasionally mistaken for IKEA furniture by confused archaeologists. And when they puzzle over its purpose centuries from now, poring over faint inscriptions about sweet release, they will conclude that this civilization—though flawed—understood one thing perfectly: the colon.
And yes, travelers sometimes whisper the ultimate question: should one pack a Squatty Potty for the road? Imagine the customs officer unzipping your suitcase to find a plastic stool wedged between socks and souvenirs. No contraband, just ergonomic dedication.
A sensible travel agent would sigh and advise: “Madam, sir, airlines frown upon passengers trying to balance stools in economy class. Perhaps leave it at home.” Yet in the heart of every true believer, the fantasy lingers—sailing through airports, stool under arm, ready to turn even the dingiest hotel bathroom into a temple of release.
So perhaps the stool does not belong in the suitcase. But in spirit, it travels with you. Wherever there is porcelain, there is hope.