When is defecation funny ?...
When is defecation funny ? When a turd is lying on your bathroom floor and you know its not yours .
When is defecation not funny ? When a turd is lying on your bathroom floor and you know its not yours. Lets call this "The furthering adventures of When friends go infantile" or "The Missing Link Rides The Bus"
The Missing Link, a term of endearment obviously of the highest anthropomorphic necessity, was a friend of mine. In our late teens and early twenties we shared mutual respect towards our athletic prowess. That was about all. His genetics and skull structure wouldn't allow this mistake to prevail any further than that. His look was that of an unmistakably ancient tribal origin. His head was strong and large with chiseled features around his ckeekbones with deepset smiling eyes and a broad powerful brow hanging like lost time on furrowed cliffs of granite. But, like a pitbull he had an unusually disproportionate body. It was very small and wiry. He was odd to look at by the trained eye, yet a gentleman for the most part to the unknowing.
The Missing Link and I were partying one night and he refused to lay down. He'd drank about twenty beers with a half a hit of blotter and a couple of grams of mushrooms. He was most certainly lost but as intoxication would have it he wouldn't be convinced . On the other hand I was finished. I've always considered myself fortunate in that I thought I always knew when to quit. I could hear my liver
screaming on the inside. Recognizing its reprisal I never needed any coaxing. My brain would readily give my lips periods of blissful understanding so as not to confuse my drunken existentialism with extemporaneous forms of glossolalia.
I was bored with his inanities.
I lived in a neighborhood where although they were Irish Catholic, they readily spoke in tongues. Not religion, alcohol. Never realizing the damaging potential of the prolonged usage of cheap distillates, as well as their inordinate belief in the infallibility of the Pope, for the longest time I thought it was brogue. Little did I know in my naivete. Yet, with this in mind, I decided to catch some z's
In these days let it be known that I was prone to the highest excesses. I possessed the lowest respect for my innards as well as my most pickled neighbor. What was life but some bizarre prelude to infinity. I always believed that thee shortest route between two points was a straight line, but this story is not about me. As I said, The Missing Link was pre-disposed with his attainability of optimum consciousness this night and was at the very least at the cusp of being unreasonable when I finally convinced him of his demise, where he fell to sleep drooling on his collar in my favorite and only easy chair. My cue here was to search for my eyelids and in doing so finding that special area between reality and dream whereupon the human body is magically allowed to recover from the tremendous disrespect it endures. I was successful in minutes.
As George Carlin would put it "when two people are in an elevator and one person farts, everyone knows who did it." This irony precedes my dilemma.
Some six seemingly uninterrupted hours later I awoke to find my faithful companion in his underwear in deep sleep at the foot of my bed with that total look of innocence one regards when watching a child in that same circumstance. My bladder being stretched it was time to release the pressure with that typical morning pleasure man experiences while stooped in agony waiting for this satisfaction. On entering this room I felt something was amiss although my foggy morning eyes would not allow me to focus. Upon achieving my glory I experienced a rush of clarity. On the floor next to my bare feet by a couple of inches pathetically lay a pair of dried brownies. Remembering at bedtime I had no access to such a carbohydrate I realized they were accompanied by assorted chocolate streaks, finger markings and smeared asterisks in places where under ordinary circumstances there would be no such symbolism. By this time my sinus held the stink of something far less palatable than the aforementioned baked goods and my mind was assuming the characteristics of an intrusion of not so much evil but of a most certain degree of annoyance.
It was clear to me I stood at the dawn of a genuine shitty day.
Now, I've read my share of Jonathan Swift, Sigmund Freud and National
Lampoon to know that I fell witness to this was a rather loose albeit vulgar form of self expression. I'm familiar with the concept of the Yahoo in contrast to variant levels of obsessive compulsive sociopathic\psycho-erotic sensations of anal retention. What I was witnessing was a far cry from this retention. Somebody had gone completely infantile behind the false security of my bathroom door. I found myself searching for more of these treasures on my way to kicking my little friends ass to
make him aware of our little quandary. I anticipated that look of oblivion in ones eyes when confronted with the first light of confusion but to my surprise he totally denied the possibility that he was the procurer of this reprehensible deposit. I was incredulous. It was beyond me to understand how a sphincter could achieve such an accurate autograph without a total act of deliberation. There were ass marks in places in an around my porcelain that had the signature of the presence of some deranged acrobat hellbent on the idea of performing sign language with his asshole. It was remarkable.
Now, I'd never seen his sphincter. I couldn't identify it if it were placed in a lineup. It was impossible for me to say if it was even his for sure. I failed to catch him in the act. But the situation as it was, and accepting my present state of hygiene as being typically as well as socially acceptable, I could assume that these scatological impressions were of his ass and his ass alone. There was no accomplice. It didn't seem to be a joint effort. It was him and me and I was certain even at my worst behavior I wouldn't experiment with this part of my body in my home or anyone else's. This left me at a total loss for words within the contorted face of his flagrant denial. It was hard to want to be his friend any more. I needed for him to leave as soon as possible. I was tired of his shit .
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Born in Buffalo NY. Educated at S.U.N.Y. at Buffalo
with a degree in oil painting. Grew up between two steel plants and a toxic waste dump. The only polak in an all Irish neighborhood. Home sweet home. Expected to make steel. Not to think. Never made steel. Still waiting to think. Too much lead in the drinking water. Will wait some more...Currently living happily in Melbourne Florida with a wife and two children...
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