I have (well, had) a weird job title: I was an Assistant to a major celebrity. The word "assistant" covers a lot of ground. In Hollywood, this could mean anything from Assistant Producer to Shit Shoveler or Late-night Taco Bell Picker-Upper or Dog Walker.
One summer evening my employer threw a HUGE party. I mean gigantic. There were over 200 guests. We had plenty of room. There are two pools on the property, a game room, two formal dining rooms, a five-car garage, and the TV rooms. People basically just wandered anywhere they wanted (except the master bedroom, which was kept locked) and ate anything they wanted. I had the affair catered. The theme was "barbecue." There were barrels of potato salad, pasta, gourmet bread, salads, pickles, chicken, pork, and twelve cakes from the bakery.
About one in the morning, the party was just getting going. There was a disturbance out back and I was summoned to "take care of it". I'm a 300-pound former college lineman, so my job duties also include security.
When I got back to the whirlpool, several folks were pointing at something. Floating right in the center of the Jacuzzi was a four-pound turd.
Whoever uncorked this Hungarian blimp must have had to first insert a hydraulic jackhammer into his or her mud hole and stretch it to eight times its normal circumference. Then they'd taken a pipe-fitting and inserted it into the top of the offending colon, connected the whole thing to a blow torch, and turned up the gravitometer to 500 PSI until the nasty floater was ejected from his or her underbelly.
The chemical composition of a Jacuzzi is different than a swimming pool. Jacuzzis have to have lots of stuff to kill bacteria and any other filth that the average yambo might drag into there. The result is like the Dead Sea. Everything floats. Even Roseanne Barr. This turd was no different. It bobbed up and down like Jessica Simpson at a Dolphin Convention.
The overall look of the turd was one of pride. It had made its way to the highest echelon in California society, and it wanted to be noticed. I looked closer and noticed that a fine mist of steam -- similar to something that comes out of a cat fart after the cat has consumed a dead gerbil -- sprang forth from the turd. The turd was communicating! I got closer and finally figured out what the turd was saying.
"You beautiful people think that you are better than everyone else," said the turd. "However, I've proven that you are not. Here I am in this wonderful warm environment, water jets across every corn seam of my length, and I've never felt better. Someone fetch me some flies."
I got a swimming pool strainer and fished out the offending steamer, shedding some tears of admiration for the holy turd.
It was buried in the backyard, but not until a few words of remembrance were said by someone who'd recently won the People's Choice Award.
The overinflated plop was never claimed by its owner.
-- Dan D.
