27 October 2010

I decided a while back not to post ordinary-toilet bowl turds, for fear of boring my public. A toilet-bowl crap is a toilet-bowl crap.

Except this morning.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I looked down and saw that due to some unknown dynamic I had shat a long almost unbroken zig-zag!

At last, something to post. I hastily pulled up my pants and went to fetch my camera. Anna (name changed for obvious reasons) saw me, and when I came back to the living room of course she made a remark. She has been staying a week and she misses nothing.

What on earth, she wondered, could I have found to photograph in the toilet? Apparently the obvious answer to that question did not occur to her. I said something vague about looking at photos on the camera screen, but she seemed to find this very strange, also. I decided once again to tell none of my friends about this blog.

Still no "followers". Perhaps this dragon-shaped turd will impress someone, somewhere in the world, and motivate him or her to become one.

A "follower", I mean. Not a turd.

12 October 2010

After the last entry, I decided that it is time to demonstrate how nice turds can be.

I feel I have succeeded in this.

I was walking beside the river when, at the usual time, about 9,30am, I began to feel a turd pressing against my rectum. Luckily I was near a wasteland, site of a demolished factory. I climbed through a hole in a wall, found a spot between budlea bushes, and laid my turd. It was a nice one. I felt rather proud. Mindful of my last (ugly) entry, I decided to take the time to make today's turd as pretty as possible. It was an enjoyable exercise. When we were kids we used to have "decorated saucer" competitions. I'd forgotten that, until this morning, as I decorated my turd. There were a lot of coloured leaves around, it being autumn, but few flowers. I found two late budlea blooms, some asters, and a few mullein flowers, and some dog-rose hips.

It was fun, scouting around the wasteland looking for scraps of colour, but the fun stopped when, arriving with a handful of leaves and aster blossom back at my partially-decorated turd, I came face to face with a young couple. They were standing, looking down at my turd, and at my camera lying on the ground beside it. They were holding hands. I think they were about to steal it. My camera. I can't imagine what they were doing in a wasteland like this so early in the morning. Perhaps looking for somewhere to make love.

It takes all types.

08 October 2010

Let me say immediately that this is not one of my turds.

Of course this should be obvious at a glance. The turd was done in a public place with little or no concern for hygene or aesthetics. I have decided to include it as an example of everything a turd should not be.

A thoughtful turd would never be deposited on a public walkway, as this one was, under a bridge. Passers by, including myself, (though at least spared the embarrassment of encountering the crapper in flagrant déli), are obliged to step over disgusting flows of fresh urine. We note that there is no sign of the turd's author having used toilet paper, or even litter or leaves, to wipe himself.

I have my suspicions about a tramp who was sitting on a wall just a few feet away. A dirty old man with a not-so-white beard and a supermarket trolley. He shouted at me with proprietal offence as I took the photo. Luckily his words were either in a foreign language or so deformed by drunkeness or speech impediment that I understood nothing and was thus able to ignore him with aplomb. Such men can be dangerous, however, so, to confuse him I proceeded to take photos of other things in the vicinity, the bridge supports, reflections on the river, a discarded cigarette packet...

The point of this rather unpleasant posting? That the Art of Shitting, despite what people think, is a refined one, requiring years of practice and reflection and self-examination. It is close to zen in its austere discipline.

A cynic would say that, however hard one has strived to love one's own waste, it is a whole different challenge to love the waste of others. That may be so. It's true that I nearly gagged, photographing this piss-soaked tramp-crap. But it is also true that if other people want their turds to be loved and even admired, they must make some effort to make them so.

02 October 2010

While hunting for mushrooms this afternoon I suddenly needed to crap really badly. This was a surprise, for I had already crapped once today. My turd this morning had been firm, knobbly, a pleasant uniform earthy brown. A conventional turd. But conventional turds, like the proverbial trains that arrive on time, do not make for interesting posts. I decided to flush this one and wait and see what tomorrow would bring...

"That's that for today," I thought.

Well, no. At about 2pm, while I was in the forest looking for mushrooms (Clitocybe nebularis, Clitopilus prunulus, Amanita rubescens, Cantharellus idfundibilifomis...), I suddenly needed to crap. Urgently! I had my suspicions why. Last night J and P had come to dinner and J had brought a big pot of poulet aux morilles. It was delicious, but even while eating those morilles, I wondered if I would not soon have the runs. I will be pleased when the mushroom season has ended and I can get back to a more balanced diet.

Anyway, as the cramps increased in intensity I began casting around for a photogenic spot in which to give birth, so to speak. I found a huge toadstool, (a milk cap, Lactarius deliciosus, I think). It was shaped like a cup, and it occurred to me that it might be fun to depose a sloppy turd into it, like a chocolate mousse in a chalice. I dropped my trousers and positioned myself directly above it and very gratefully let fly.

Missed!

One's anus does not point quite where one expects. Mine doesn't, at least.

I'm amazed, actually, at how far off I was in my calculations. Sixteen centimetres, if one uses the length of my mushrooming knife as a scale. It's just as well I wasn't flying a B52 bomber in the Second World War; I would have killed scores of villagers and left the munitions factory untouched.

PS, I have discovered that if I click on "STATS" I can see how many internauts have visited this blog. Not many. The lack of quantity, however, is compensated by the geographical diversity of my visitors. The States. Canada. France. Afgansistan!

I wish I knew more about these anonymous visitors who poke their noses into my little world and then leave, silently closing the door behind them. If I could talk to them, I might be able to charm one or two into becoming "followers". I would so love a "follower". Other bloggers get them. The most deadly dullest of them often have dozens. Why shouldn't I?