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The Beauty

By Rodd Marcus

There are times in life when greatness is thrust upon one. In my life these instances have been few and far between. That is, until that fateful day, I like to call “Lucky Wednesday.” This day would provide the happy chance to make up for all of my daily frustrations and disappointments. It was the day the stars smiled and the day I made “The Beauty.”

“Lucky Wednesday” seemed like any Wednesday. It would soon become anything but. Speaking of butt, I found, that in the later hours of that day I detected a tremor deep within my entrails, the tremor that only heralded the most profound of bowel movements. Innocently enough I jogged into the bathroom. Not to over dramatize, but there was a strange excitement before I was able to begin. The seat seemed especially accommodating (not too cold or hard… just right). Well, there I was seated comfortably. It was just as it had always been before, but not exactly. There was anticipation in the air. The silence was then shattered as I, feeling as though I was undertaking some kind of strategic manoeuvre, laid down suppressing fire. Flatulence roared like the call of a mighty musk ox and I smiled with swelling pride. Next, I let loose with the first salvo; a short controlled burst of what can only be called “Intestinal Napalm”. I grinned with sinister glee at my military acumen. I was Stormin’ Norman and the bowl was Bagdad. And though I felt that I had already achieved air superiority there were preparations being made for a full scale bombing. Thinking back, there were options open to me for this strike. For example, there is the old standby “Payload drop of artillery”, then there is ”Toxic chemical warfare” or any from a myriad of pungent others, but, this required the right weapon for the right job. The order was passed down from command central at the large intestines and I mercilessly let loose with “The Beauty.” Yes, “The Beauty” it was called by learned scholar and naive child, a turd work-of-art with the magnitude of a two-slice toaster and the fragrance of Hell bourn brimstone, a faecal opus bejewelled of corn and peanut. At first, blind to its visual splendour, I was jubilant over just sensing its sheer size and complexity. Though I should have been exhausted, I sprang to my feet, bidden to see the miracle. Then, when I first accomodated its glory in my sights, I could hardly contain my joy and I began to weep. Such a natural wonder could hardly have its beginnings in my humble guts, but it did. I immediately ran for my beloved family to show them and have them behold. Every one was very proud. My sister gasped at its magnitude. My mother sang to the heavens. My father, smiling the broad smile of prideful loins, gave me a dollar. I did cherish this thoughtful reward but what I could not tell him was that there was nothing that could have more value than my unexpurgated exultation. I had created the perfect dump, a casting of the gods, rivalling the beauty and grandeur of the great redwoods. Photos of it, poised in the very bowl it dwarfed, hang now in places of honour in my home and those of relatives and close friends.

My adventure in elimination showed me the mystery and wonder of nature in this world. I was fortunate enough to take part of its splendour in this way. I wish shit like this on the leaders of this planet’s great empires. I think if they spent some time looking deep into their toilets and not so long at their disagreements, we might have a better hope for peace.


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