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.
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