Squats

Brother Milotus is no stranger to his bedpan. Sweating and wriggling in his gray sheets, he tries to think, his head throbbing from an excess of dregs of communion wine, how to ridicule Biblical scholarship while yesterday’s cabbages find sonorous relief. Absolute obedience to an infallible pope and to the opinions of Brother Milotus still can’t get his breeches over his bulges, but it makes no sense to do the buttons when, after lunch, his bread, pâté, and port have constipated his stool and required a serious session of groaning squats. He spends his hours writing piles of words espousing virulent anti-semitism and the perpetuation of ignorance. The air of flatulence in his rooms accumulates to a miserable density, Too miserly to open a window, he wets his breeches and passes out.