In this moment of free time from guaranteeing my children's future (a future that would scare the shit outta me; I guess that's why I am a workaholic. I'll die and they take their last look at me (or sniff; I haven't decided yet) and thank me for the bucks. Whether or not they love Dad is conditionally attached to the constant stream of twenties that bled from my wallet.), I will rest easy knowing I gave them a leg up. Even though a couple should have been straight in their ass. When I think of all those diapers...

But, I digress. What I'm really thinking about is our preoccupation with poop. A preoccupation that has built an empire for Dave and has millions chortling (is that still a word?). I mean, you can only get so much mileage out of the myriad of ways to drop a load or funny names to call a turd. Or whatever makes us laugh at farts and other people's minor pain and stupidity. (I would never laugh at anyone's serious pain but my own. And my Uncle Carl's, who cut off a finger in a fan and cut off another one showing my dad how he cut off the first one. That shit is funny. Plus I hate him, and that makes it even funnier.)

A few days short of my doctor's appointment, I ran out of my pain meds. I was dope sick as a dog, shitting on myself. My doc is on vacation. Her sub (or whatever you call a doctor's sub) was golfing or some shit. When the S.O.B. finally called me back at ten PM, I was puking my guts out and going from room to room on my hands and knees. I would have beaten him with his own clubs if he were near me. It was my bad -- I take some tasty (that's T-A-S-T-Y) pain meds, and it seems some visitors like 'em too, because if they are not well-hidden I always seem to come up short.

I got my script filled, took the meds twenty minutes later. The euphoria was so extreme I would have bet I was in bed with ten hookers who were screaming my name and oil wrestling for a chance to jump up and down on my morphine-induced boner. I lay back and got better. Diarrhea a distant memory. You know, diarrhea was a bi-yearly treat for me in the past, but I got some stoolees and I almost --- almost -- crap normally now, except just not often enough.

My point is that before the morphine had a chance to stiffen my turds into an engine block again (a little softer), I took a dump that was so euphoric, I surmised just what PoopReporters are: addicts of the first degree!!

After reading more than my fair share of reports, it has become obvious to me that we line up at the bathroom door awaiting the next fix. Then I pondered on my fair city's outdoor pay toilets, and the thought of paying twenty-five cents made it even truer. Twenty-five cents a fix. Not a real moneymaker... but wait... two million people. Most shit every day (I would be a shitty customer). That would come to almost $500,000 a day.

Now my head is spinning. I want a piece of every piece.

I'm sorry. Once again, I have digressed.

The dumps with major roughage are akin to heroin in my estimation; if they are long, fuck me. A good scraping is as good as it gets. I have wondered if eating peanut shells would be good. I probably wouldn't call the doctor if I swallowed an S.O.S. Pad or kitty litter.

I was reading an Edgar Cayce book recently, and although I agree with most of what he says, his way of saying shit cracks me up. If he were alive today, he probably would send in something like this:

Think on This Thing
There is no negative component between thy intake and of thy expelling from the horn of thee spirits bounty. Past thine palette, the medley of nutrients extracted from the bastion of thee bowels nourish self. Once self is sated, a proliferation of flecked fossilage extrude to turn thy generally-obtuse wrinkle into a wondrous bundle of nerve endings alive with God's love that chill thy spine with every inch that pass, and thy hair may stand on end as though shocked. Pray not for gillyflower or pine for a less odoriferous experience. The carious nature of the extrusion prohibits thine sating oneself twice; this is for the cleanliness of thy temple. Consider thy extrusion an empty horn. Surround thy temple with it and the God will bless thee with more bounty. This is the circle the God hath crafted for you. Never find thyself in another's circle. Never war with extrusion -- thou art not an ape. The extrude are the God's wondrous gift to thee!! Always thank the God. Be spiritual and flush.

I have got to find a way to get everyone's shit quarter. Man, there is so much money in shit, I am drooling on my keyboard. I will listen to any ideas. You... you bunch of addicts...