Not long ago, in the wintery wonderland called Syracuse, NY, I was a boisterous, beer-swilling college
student. If you've got a moment, I'd like to spin a short yarn that may appeal to all you poop-o-philes out
there.
On a particularly cold and blustery evening, I was spreading mischief with my usual entourage of rogues and
miscreants. We had supped on burritos, enchiladas, and hot chocolate earlier in the night, and our respective
bowels were cramping and howling in protest.
Hurriedly searching for a suitable cesspool in which to deposit our
wretched offal, we stumbled across the doors of the most respected broadcast journalism school in the nation:
The Newhouse School of Public Communications.
Never a group to hesitate when it came to public trou-dropping, we collectively deposited the partially processed
remnants of our meal in a stinking, steaming tower of fecal foulness on the venerable vestibule of good 'ole
Newhouse. The putrid pile of poop froze solid in under four minutes, leaving us with a portable putrid pile of
poop.
After a few minutes of trying to guess who had donated the tapeworms to the frozen feces, we realized what
a devastating weapon had fallen out of our rectums, and into our hands.
Interestingly enough, a member of the group was an employee at the dormitory dining hall. After intense debate
and discussion, we decided that it would be fitting to reincarnate the poop -- to give it new life, in the exact
form of its previous manifestation. The following evening, as oblivious college freshmen slurped and swallowed
their burritos, enchiladas, and hot chocolate in the dining hall, their cries of "this food tastes like shit!"
rang with hidden truth. The "circle of poop" was complete.
-- Colon Bowell
