From the early days, conceptual art, like Duchamp's urinal and Manzoni's canned shit, has always courted controversy. But it hasn't actually caused chaos -- until now.

The harmonious landscaped gardens of the Zentrum Paul Klee museum in Berne, Switzerland, have been home for the past few months to what might possibly be the largest piece of crap art ever made. American artist Paul McCarthy has created a giant inflatable dog turd, the size of a house, entitled Complex Shit.

The monstrous heap of turds was secured in the gardens by anchors and had a built-in safety system that would ensure that it deflated in times of bad weather. Unfortunately, during a sudden gust of strong wind on July 31st, the safety valve (presumably some sort of sphincter) failed. Complex Shit broke free of its moorings and sailed, as gracefully as a house-sized turd can, out of the park.

Its freedom didn't last long, however, as within two hundred meters it managed to bring down a power line. It came to ground ignominiously after breaking a window of a children's home.

Juri Steiner, the museum's director, said that they were not sure if the exhibit would be put back on display. Mr. Steiner also failed to mention what the orphans thought of their home being assaulted by an enormous mound of flying feces.

Off of Indian River Drive in Brevard County, Florida, there used to be a church. It was built in the late 1800's, and it played a huge part in the community in which it stood. It was used for prayer, of course; but it was also was used as a school, a public hall, a polling station, and even an observation tower during WW II.

Many people passed through this church's doors during its time, and many of those people needed to poop. Therefore church officials erected an outhouse in the church's backyard. A four-seater. Over the years, the church changed hands, and so did the outhouse. But while the community continued to need a church, progress rendered the outhouse behind it obsolete. The outhouse faded into a forgotten mass of planks, rendered useless through decades of neglect.

This month, though, the remains of the outhouse are going to take a little trip. Historians interested in the outhouse have decided to move its remains and restore it to its heyday, as a reminder that once upon a time, there was no flush button. With the help of The Durable Restoration Company, the outhouse will now be a public reminder of yesteryear.

Debbie Coles is Brevard County's Natural Resources environmental program manager, and she thinks the outhouse will be interesting to children who have no idea what an outhouse is. "I think the kids take it for granted that they can flush," she remarked, "and they don't have to think about where it goes."

I think this is nice. The multiple-butt outhouse is indeed a piece of Americana whose time has come and gone; and to see younger generations contemplate one, wondering how it must be to loaf one out next to another person, would be interesting. My only question is if this was the only outhouse behind the church. What difference did one or four seats matter to a two-sex species? I'd be curious to see if this is mentioned in the little plaque that will most likely sit in front of it once completed.

He found himself basking in one of the many balmy evenings that he'd known since birth.

He stopped and inhaled a lungful of Yankee air, grateful that the Goldenrod had yet to bloom. Maybe it was the atmosphere -- sparse and foreboding. Maybe it was the whisperings of flavor in the air, delivered by a wind weighted with early summer pollen and the soft, acrid taste of construction tar. Maybe it was his blood alcohol level, which had in the past hour had surpassed his high school SAT scores. The impetus disregarded, our intoxicated Pennsylvania hero might have gazed towards the northeast American skies while allowing his body to be cocooned by the encompassing glamour of the early harvests. He may have had other plans on that fateful night, but they weren't realized once he felt the need -- the need for mead.

For Shannon Hunter, it was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was a time of mirth, of adventure, of indecision. It was that time he got so hammered that he ended up naked in the shit tank of a porta-potty.

Once our hero relinquished his hold on sobriety, he got nekked and crawled into the holding tank of big green shitter. The choice of atmosphere may have jarred his common sense back into action, though, because once in the tank, he called 911 from his cell phone.

Local firefighters and rescue workers arrived on the scene shortly after his call and cut him from his plastic Xanadu, at which point he was charged with public drunkenness and creating a public health violation. I can only wonder if the public health violation was Obscene Placement of a Cellular Object.

(By the way, I'm a native Pennsylvanian, and I put my cell phone in my purse.)

When Kris Draper got his turn to keep the Stanley Cup this summer, the Detroit Red Wing center never thought that his contributing story to the cup's notorious history would include poop. However, his infant daughter had other plans. Baby Kamryn decided to make her own statement when her father put her in the cup: she had a bowel movement in it.

"A week after we won it, I had my newborn daughter in there and she pooped in the Cup," Draper said in a Detroit Free Press story this week. "That was something. We had a pretty good laugh. I still drank out of that night, so no worries." No worries? I hope he uses Anti-bacterial Palmolive!

I would be interested to know how the teammates who haven't yet had a chance to host the Cup will now feel about taking their own turns drinking champagne out of it.