I’ve almost got target lock when the enemy banks sharply to the left. “Sonofabitch!” I shout, pouring on the speed and rolling my plane, leaning hard to the side, as if my body movements will make the craft more responsive. The toilet seat creaks in protest.

Its protests go unheard. There’s 30 seconds left on the clock, and the four flashing red indicators converge on my target. Missiles fire in a graceful arc toward my respected foe. I suddenly realize I’m humming Kenny Loggins’ Danger Zone. That’s right, baby. My bathroom is now officially the Danger Zone.

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