Velociworld

A Shit in the Woods

I was reminescing, for some unknown reason, over my childhood, and I recalled a good shit in the woods, and the pyschic dysplasia that followed. Hark:

I must have been 12, my brother 10, my older cousin 9, his younger brother 6. We were walking the barren cornfields of the farm on an Indian summer afternoon, looking for God knows what. Just nice to be in the sweet air, I suppose. As luck would have it I needed to void, far from the madding toilet. I was almost an adult by then, meaning I did not climb a tree and watch my feces drop 20 feet for impact appreciation. Nor did I wipe my arse with Spanish moss, having learned the drawbacks of the insidious redbug.

Shit I did, however, on the edge of the field, cleansed with fresh oak leaves, the fallen of which I kicked over the foul pile.

I thought that was the end of it. And yet, within three minutes, my younger cousin had managed to step through the mini-Superfund site, and encase his new sneakers in my bowel movement. In an 80 acre field. Go figure.

As I did not want to explain to my mother or aunt that the little fucker was slathered in mine own crap I attempted to clean his sneakers off, a most egregious task. Human shit is far fouler than the shit of your average barnyard animal, although pigs are off the radar.

The net? It was like the pink stuff in The Cat In The Hat. The more you cleaned, the more it spread. As I recall we stripped down to biscuit buttocks at the back door, and threw the befouled clothing in a hamper, with cherubic faces of denial in attendance.

Why do I even bring this up?

Kerry is about to make his acceptance speech, of course. Just setting the tone.