My son Shane comes from a great ancestry of poopers. Even by the age of two, I knew he was destined to be in a class all by himself, if he wasn't already. It was as if he was born to be a sculptor of human fecal material using only the tools God had given him.
One day, at the age of three, he disappeared into the water closet with a Bernstein Bears book. This, for some reason, always told me he was gonna be "pooping a yode," in his words, which meant he was going to fashion a veritable masterpiece.
After thirty minutes of some of the fiercest grunting and groaning a three-year-old can muster, he called for me in an excited manner. I went to the bathroom, and when I opened the door I thought I had walked into a wall of solid shit. The stench that was emanating from my son's caca was enough to make a billy goat puke.
We had no ceiling fan, so I waded through the fumes to ask Shane if he was okay. By now he had already gotten off the poop pot and was standing there, looking up at me with a grin as wide as his head.
"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing his wee finger in pride at what had to be one of the most perfectly sculpted and incredibly crafted turds that any three-year-old in the world, regardless of their diet, could have pinched.
"Holy SHIT!" I squawked as I stared at this magnificent stalagmite of pure poop. No bends in it! No dents in it! No lumps in it! Just an awesome alp of the purest human shit this world would have ever had the pleasure of seeing.
I didn't even want to flush it. I just wanted to pick it up and cradle it like a newborn child -- for it was at that moment I knew that I was passing the turd torch from my shit sculpting ancestors into the hands of a very capable crapper. One day my son was going to stand on the poop podium and hold the gold medal of anal agony over his head in pride and dignity for all his forbearers to behold.
Sadly, the time had come to say goodbye. But -- BUT -- after eleven flushes, this majestic marvel of human intestinal magic refused to go. So I took the litter scoop from my kitty's poopy pan and gently chopped the poor thing into seven equal sections approximately three or four inches apiece. As I stood there with my arm around my proud son, he did the honors of giving it a sendoff with a three flush salute.
"I'm proud of you, son," I said, and as I looked into his beaming face, a tear escaped my eye.
"That was a real massenpiece, eh, Dad?" he queried.
"It sure was, son. It sure was."
-- Krazykritik