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It was the day that I
bounced around the forest. Privy’s full of disturbers,
smelling like, well I don’t know exactly. Like the smell
when a thousand people have been running around in the hot
afternoon and have been shitting on the goddamn thing for
weeks. The sun never goes down on privy’s like that. In
fact, I’m beginning to believe that the sun never rises on
them either. The sun just ignores the inner workings of
places like that. Anyway it was the day I had to, for the
first time. It was the day I buried my shit
You can’t bury nothing if
you ain’t got a whole, and I didn’t bring my little shovel
around for nothing, so it wasn’t like I hadn’t planned on
doin’ some diggin’. I hunkered down behind some bushed and
did my doin’ after my diggin’, still weak knees, sore and
stiff, and actually preventing me from squatting down
completely, so I had to pull off my underpants or I would
have buried those too. I smell like shit a lot, but there’s
no need to emphasize that. Got the job done leaning to a
tree somehow, whiped my muscular toosh and put the bio
degradable paper (is there any other kind?) where it’s
supposed to go, groped for my underwear, put it on, making
those funny jerking dancing motions like a girl does when
her panties don’t wanna come off that last bit of legs.
Grabbed my shovel, turned around, and my shit was gone!
Shit doesn’t take off on
its own, so I started for the closest person I could find to
accuse him of stealing my shit. The first guy I encountered
was a gawky looking bearded man of around fifty, wandering
around a barbecue stand in good standing. It had a nice bar
and I was wondering if I could get a beer or two, but shook
my head to clear it and chase my past away. There was
noone to be seen for at least fifty yards, so I confronted
him head on.
“Sir, have you seen my
eh…”
And got stuck right away.
Read somewhere that you can’t say shit because maybe the
people hearing are Mormons or something. Or those suburban
bastards who think you can’t say that because what will the
neighbors think? Or like when you see a nigger and say
‘that’s a stupid nigger’ to your white suburban friends and
your sister comes along and says you can’t say that because
it might hurt their feelings. I said shit once to my bulky
neighbor. It was accompanied by a whole lot of other stuff
so I went home crying. I had to devise a way around it
somehow.
His attention had now been
on me for at least two minutes. He must have been looking at
me in awe, tossing and turning myself around, for I am a lot
of manliness to toss and turn around, so he was awaiting my
query with awe, but also with a dumb look the likes of which
I had never seen in my life.
“Sir, have you seen my
shit?” What the hell have I been writing the past paragraphs
for?
The guy wasn’t disturbed
one bit, however.
“Well, that depends on
what you see as shit.”
“Eh..”
“If you mean your stuff,
you have it right on your back, don’t you?”
“No, well, you could call
what I mean stuff I s’pose, but I mean my, eh, my poo!”
I thought I couldn’t get
any more direct than that. There was a flash of recognition
in his eyes. He stuck his pointy finger in the air and
gestured me to wait right there. He gonna get my shit! The
first thing I was going to do was ask him why he stole my
shit, but he came back with a yellow teddybear in a red
shirt.
“Are you shitting me?”
“I am not shitting you. I
found this thing two days ago back thatta way. I own this
here barbecue stand, so I thought I hold on to it in case
someone come to reclaim his lost Pooh. Made my own
lost&found closet I did. Well, here you are!”
All smiles he offered me
the most boring character of all time. I hoped to meet that
bear and his sidewinder Christopher Robin for real while
walking this trail, so I could gut them both and burn them
to the ground. The others I would eat alive. Screaming they
would gush down my insatiable throat, blood aided
peristalsis from hell. I would have rid the world of evil.
Instead I was getting agitated.
“I don’t mean
Winnie-the-Pooh, I mean feces, crap, turds, stool! God
damnit!”
“A stool? You need to sit
down? There is one right over there at the bar, mellow out
man.”
“Mellow out? Are you
turning nineties on me? I MEAN THE BROWN STINK THAT COMES
OUT OF YOUR ASS!"
So I punched him in the
face and took off like a madman. I brushed some trees in my
frantic pursuit of happiness, hoping to leave my adversary
to rot in my unfortunate watery ditch that had given me
trouble ever since I made that wrong turn on Fishbowl Alley,
telling myself that this would be the only opportunity to
catch some threes, even though I knew there was something
fishy about the way that waitress looked at my belongings,
as if it were a consolation to her soul that she wasn’t the
only one who had to make desperate times a collection of
rhymes. What?
Clipped in the shoulder by
a short branch broken off from his usual erect and longing
size, I was spun around and landed on my back in what turned
out to be an ants’ nest the breadth of which I wouldn’t have
been able to escape from even if I had an airliner tucked
away in my Swiss Army knife somewhere. I hoped that my would
be attacker had gone, given up crying and had gone to momma
sugar. But here he came, ass first, sparks and stars flying
from his inner cologne, blinding me, covering me with shit.
Red ants round as tomatoes dispersed as quickly as they had
gathered their troops on my flesh, gnawing their way into
what I told myself later must have been craters of leather.
Blood was flowing through insectiairy channels, drowning
kings and queens, killing millions. Another war prevented.
Another day saved.
His cheeks were bouncing
all over the place, asking me, begging me, longing for me to
put a tongue in it, but I refused to give up and tell the
bastard reluctantly that I had no taste for smalltalk.
Instead I scrambled to my feet and dove straight into his
throbbing, swallowing whole, sphincters munching on their
own poo, eagerly putting their own tongues on my cheeks,
caressing the sweet taste of their own, like you do when you
fart in bed and want your girl to smell your one left
freedom. I fought my way up, elbowing ulcers, dodging buck
teeth. I sat with my legs still in his mouth, using his
lower jaw as a chair began reducing everything to mush with
my iron fists. His teeth sank into my buttocks, anchoring me
so I could do an even more proper job.
I stuffed his remains in
my expensive titanium pan and cooked them until dawn. I
still couldn’t forgive him for not telling me where my shit
had gone. He was practically inedible, but I forced at least
half down. It crashed through my stomach with a large splash as if
someone had thrown a big rock in a quiet pond. Some of the
acid splashed upwards, burning my throat. Left the rest of
my meal for the critters. There was no need to set up camp
for the night. Slept comfortably in the abandoned
barbecuestand. Funny thing is it even had a privy, and
before I knew it, I found my shit. |