A monolithic dump
Pumped and dumped on April 30, 2023.
“I just took a monolithic dump!”
My exultant chootling and equally boastful countenance was met with a long pause—signalling perplexion mixed with alarm and what could perhaps best be described as shocked appallment. There was no time to lose—I plowed forward before my conversation partner could regain his footing, gather himself up, and present a proper retort.
“It was bigger than a bird!” I blurted forth. “You know that? ’Twas a turd… bigger than a bird!” But what kind of bird? A hummingbird? A turkey? A goose, even? Or an emu? Some questions are best left unanswered.
“It was huge! It was enormous! It was…” I kept going. When the juice is flowing, it must not be stopped. My florid descriptions continued for another seventeen minutes: Unabated, unstoppable, and indeed much like my own alimentary tract now, fully unstopped. My perplexed counterparty may have attempted to insert a word in edge-wise, or even just by the tip, but it mattered not. My colorful, baroque characterizations of what had plopped forth did slowly wane in color—but only because my excretory epic finally settled upon the purest of purple: Gripping purple prose so purple it would lead to gangrene if I gripped much harder.
I unclenched. Then I flushed, zipped up with much clamorous ostentation and gusto, and rose from my throne with glee. This week’s misfortunate oppilation had ended at last this morning, with a resounding plop, plop! and a fizz, fizz! and oh, by doG, what a relief it is! I simply had to drop everything—Stop the presses! Halt the furfendaglers!—and share the good news with someone. And share it I did. I shared the hecklegroober out of it.
Then I made the mistake of taking a breath for one quarter of a second too long. Crap!
“Sir—” The word, meek and unsteady as it was, slipped through edgewise. “—do you have a city sewer or storm drain issue you would like to report?” Confusion still reigned on the other end of the phone; I could hear it in the man’s voice. (I think his name was not Borb.) But clearly he had finally found his resolve and was able to muster a response of sorts, timid as it was. “Again, sir—this is the 3-1-1 operator for the city waterworks. If you would like to report an—”
“Crap!” I stalled for time. “Crap-a-dap! Crap-a-dap-a-dap!! Crap, crap!”
I thought hard. I thought so hard I almost snapped my cortex in twain. I considered letting the perplexed man know about the inflatable rat that someone had stuffed down the storm drain on Woolly Bully Boulevard, but he’d just blame me (especially once they viewed the surveillance footage). I considered informing him about the sempiternally expanding fatberg beneath Bouillabaisse Boulevard, but he’d probably just give credit to someone else (despite my best efforts to gain recognition for my oleaginous feat). I even considered thanking the department for the speed with which they implemented Mayor Rhoodie’s new equity initiative, repainting all the fire hydrants every color of the rainbow, but then I remembered…
“Why yes, I would like to report an issue!” I regained my aplomb. No one uses that patronizing, you’re-a-doofus-but-I’m-being-polite tone with me and gets away with it for more than eight or nine minutes. “A terrible, terrible thing happened yesterday evening: I had a nightmare about running out of toilet paper in one of your public restrooms!”
“Sir, we do not maintain any public restrooms—”
“Well, that explains the condition it was in! Haw, haw, haw!”
I hung up.
On Friday, I began to have second thoughts about eating that monolith I had discovered on Monday, but I shoved those thoughts aside: I had already eaten the monolith on Tuesday. And besides, if a man can survive solely on sticks of pepperoni for 161 days, there is nothing on doG’s green Earth that man cannot eat.
Or so I thought. The passage of the week—and the passage of nothing else therein—soon taught me otherwise. Not even a whole gallon of my favorite hygiene product, Asgard™ Buttwash for Men, provided me with any relief now. I contemplated switching to organic—the Spend-O-Mart was having a promotional sale on Callipygian Fields® certified organic buttwash—but I resolved instead that the best course of action was to hook up my plunger to a jackhammer and cross my fingers.
That didn’t help either.
Saturday brought back memories of a short-lived business venture, my attempt to create and market a line of women’s sandals. Becasue said she would wear them but no one else would—not even Plårp. My big little redheaded huzzey-muffet always knew how to cheer me up; wearing a small pile of my shoes atop her head did just that. I in my asshats and her both in my bespoke sandals and ravishingly déchaux, we went to town on Saturday and disturbed and perturbed everyone. (Except the geese. Nothing bothers those little shits.) We had a blast.
The grocery store, learning of my stuffy shenanigans, wouldn’t sell me any more cartons of light cream. No amount of whining, whinging, or even kerplunking would change their mind. So I hijacked one of their trucks on the way home. Now I have 10,000 cartons.
And the city’s public library, having learned of my lavatorial shenanigans, wouldn’t sell me any more books to eat, either. No amount of whining, whinging, or even trying to claim it was all just a made-up nightmare would change their mind. So I hijacked an Amazon delivery van and ate all the books I could find in there.
I sometimes wish I had more ice cubes. I sometimes wish I had fewer noses. I even sometimes wish I had more length yet less width.
No one knows what the hell is going on anymore.
Not even me.
…Maybe Mr. Snulbug does.
This concludes yet another consternatious five-Sunday month. There’ll be more. But until the next one, I’m just gonna have to say: “Spwahhh!”