shit story

Stand back. You might not want to read this, especially if you're squeamish, because this is a story about male plumbing, and it's based on something that happened today.

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Men are builders and explorers. Their overall behavior is modeled after the shape and function of their genitals: probing, invasive, lacking subtlety, often causing fear and delight.

Men build with their brains and their hands. Consider skyscrapers, towers, houses, apartment complexes, and igloos: monuments to the male building urge are everywhere on this planet. Massively complex mathematical structures and abstruse, skirling chains of logic are generally the products of male minds. Great probes are flung like whale-sized spermatozoa into the vast womb of space, borne upon penis-shaped booster rockets that push the probes toward weird planets tucked into Fallopian orbits. Men: they build with their brains and their hands.

But men also build with their asses.

Ladies: when a man takes a shit, make no mistake that he sees himself engaged in a great endeavor-- perhaps the greatest endeavor of all: the attempt to craft something memorable out of a substance generally immune to stacking. The process happens about daily for most men; some of us are privileged to engage in it several times a day; others hold themselves back for several days, then extrude monstrous, paradoxical, snake- or sluglike sculptures that would have fascinated the likes of Moebius, Escher, and Mother Theresa.

A man instinctively knows when he has achieved greatness on the toilet. His features contort in a barbaric snarl of delight; he often utters a war cry for all to come forth and behold his achievement.

"Dude! LOOK AT THIS FUCKIN' TURD!"

Over the course of time, men eventually came to measure fecal greatness according to two criteria: (1) consistency, and (2) volume. Lucky was the man whose ass-child was both firm and large.

Today, good gentles, thanks in part to my Metamucil fiber supplement, I achieved greatness in the second-floor restroom of my building.

Unfortunately, a man at a women's university is unable to crow in victory: few women understand the arcane symbolism well enough to appreciate the profound sacramentality of an impeccably excreted superlog.

But my penis understood, and it vomited angrily.

In fact, because the urine stream was so powerful, I jokingly speculated that it would cut through a sequoia if one were there beneath me.

And right at that moment, right as the sequoia-cutting thought coalesced, the huge floating log blundered into the path of the most powerful urine stream I had ever produced.

Imagine the Unstoppable Force meeting the Immovable Object. It was a bit like that. Piss and shit were flying everywhere, like sparks from the impact inside a supercollider. Nothing was safe. What my ass had labored so long and hard to produce, my wang was attempting to undo.

But the log was adamantine. The urine stream succeeded only in blasting chunks off its surface, laser-carving the shit into a totem pole, a cylindrical bas-relief of incomprehensible alien imagery.

Then it was over.

I looked around. My surroundings reminded me of the aftermath of a tornado. The interior of the toilet cubicle looked as though it had been attacked by an impossibly huge, dung-flinging simpleton.

I stood up and leaned over the toilet to gaze in awe at the new totem pole. It shimmered in the water with uncanny luminescence, a scepter for angels. It was inscribed in a language and symbol structure beyond all human ken. I saw what my ass and schlong had created together and, profoundly moved, began weeping uncontrollably. What was I in the face of the awful mystery? A mere worm, privileged beyond measure to behold a sight never before seen and never to be seen again.

Yes, I thought to myself: I fathered this. I.


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