A Shit To Rememeber

I awoke this morning to the smell of farts and folgers. A cool breeze blew in from the east. Minnesota is nice this time of the year and the old people die less frequently from heat stroke now then in the smoldering heat of June. Which means that my chances of inheriting the Norweigan novelties and knitted salt shaker covers from my lovless grandparents rise greatly with each passing day.

My shoulder is sore from sleeping on it. I ached with the sullen throb of a case of blue balls, but I took little notice, as my morning wood caused me to douse my bathroom counters with an insistant and pungent stream of urine.

I turned the water on in my shower to warm up as I got ready to shower. My interest was peaked by the look of my own expanding stomach in the mirror, which has grown large enough to support my pecs. Making me look like a rounded off muscle man.

Finding the temperature to have risen within the acceptable range in the six minutes it took me to trim my nose hairs and floss my teeth. I stepped into the shower fully prepared to lean against the wall and doze.

I was at that point impinged upon with the nuzzling sensation of a turd of mammoth proportions eagerly straining against my O-ring like some deranged bunny whose hole had collapse on itself. I was faced with a painful decision: Shit now or shit after my shower? While it is true that it seems a more sanitary start to the day to wash after shitting. The thought of stepping out of the deluge of hot water into the cold, unforgiving terrain of my bathroom did not appeal to me. I also considered the very real possibility of sitting at my computer for eight hours with swamp ass.

Thankfully I chose to shit, because the experience will not soon be forgotten

I toweled off quickly, still unhappy at being roused from my nice shower and sat my gleaming naked ass onto the second coldest toilet bowl I've ever experienced (the first being a story in and of itself). Protected by only a small layer of fat the brunt of chill passed without causing me actual harm. I picked up a copy of The Economist to pass the time.

I can only assume that the turd itself somehow internally stimulated my prostate as I was nearly overcome whilst shitting. The sheer size of the foul beast was almost incomprehensable knowing the max expansion limits of my turd cutter and the length (in feet) of my own colon. Luckily it was tapered at the end or my asshole would have snapped shut.

As it happened, the demon left my body whole, the majority of it dissappearing through the hole at the bottom of the bowl and vanishing with a SINGLE FLUSH. Things get more and more curious from there. Not only did the snake have no smell, but it LEFT NO SHIT ON THE TOILET PAPER!

What does that mean?

Basically that the greatest shit of my lifetime was at the same time odorless and yet was also a true no wiper. Also, it means that I have nothing else to look forward to until I can get the senior discount at the Perkins down the street.

I'm overcome now and weeping freely, so I leave you, my loyal friends ponder your greatest shit. Or perhaps to dream of the day you will be given your blessing. That fine day when you shit the shit of all shits and live to tell the tale.

Praise be to God for the shit I have received.

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