Poo

It occurred to me at some point several weeks ago, that upon permanently departing from my humble Residence Hall room known formerly as Le Petit Dump, I relinquished my title, position, and duties as the Sheriff of Shite to the temporary care of my anally-fixated asian former dorm-mates contingent upon the return of my trusty Deputy of Dung, one Mr. Ranson of the John (who is currently marauding as a Frenchman in the land of the baguettes. I can only hope that his penchant for regular bathing and skills at careful wiping have not heavily deteriorated during his stay, as bidets are far rarer in the United States than they are in more exotic locales - Canada for instance). As such, I settled into a peaceful and somewhat dignified retirement, sitting back and occasionally browsing through the angry email flames produced by my asian friends regarding incidences of abandoned beefy loaves in the second-floor lounge-side toilet. Although reading such missives induced something akin to nostalgia, I realized that my days as a washroom warrior were behind me - it was now time for this aging can-crusader to sit back and allow the next generation to continue the staunch defense of the sanctity of defecation.

Or so I thought.

Perhaps the best way to state my initial reaction upon making my discovery was shock. Shock at the sharp contrast made by this affront to my tactile, olfactory, and visual senses. After all, I did just retire from patrolling a dorm of 90+ residents to the palatial restroom comfort of an enormous new home in an upper crust neighborhood, inhabited only by the married couple owning the property and the one herein referred to as "The Veggie" (as in "Vegetarian," not "Vegetable" - thus even failing to endear himself as my favorite vegetable, who is, by the way, Christopher Reeves. While perhaps "The Veggie" is by no means the most astute or creative of names to award this "special" gentleman in my life, it is by far one of the most flattering in my collection of epithets. A full listing, however, is available upon request). But I digress; four people sharing three restrooms in said palatial estate - that's an ass-to-bathroom ratio of 4:3. 1:1 if you consider a spa tub with scrubbly bubble action adequate facilities for the quick peein' spree, which, stastically speaking, a human of a considerably normal omniverous diet is far more likely to perform over the pinch 'n' cinch (a healthy, well-hydrated human craps once, perhaps twice daily compared to the 5 or 6 times daily he dewaters the reactor, so to speak).
The object of my discovery and scorn? To put it most concisely, upon my return from a weekend spent amongst relatives in Canada, I found a crap-streak directly on the seat of the upstairs toilet. On the seat!

Immediately swabbing it up with a moist wad of bum-cloth, I immediately began to mull through the possibilities of how said poo-smear had come to be. Was The Veggie to blame? Or perhaps an intimate guest from over the weekend? After all, with his taste not being what it once was, his intimate guests were not exempt from suspicion.

This of course, brought me to my first thought, which was "ew! Who misses the toilet bowl while sitting down?" A drunkard? A contortionist? The Man with Three Buttocks? To whomever was responsible, I would plead with you to please be aware of the spray-area caused by your meatloaves, or tofu-diarrhea, or whatever gastro-intestinal unpleasantries have you. Fight your animalistic urges to "mark" your territory - it's what separates man from beast.

I somehow doubted, aside from tofu-diarrhea, the plausibility of someone missing the seat. After all, none of the inhabitants, nor guests of the house had exhibited remotely animalistic tendencies in the past, and none of them, as far as I'm aware, had three buttocks. This let me to believe that perhaps the smear was simply a print, caused from prior defecation and improper wiping technique. Now this, of course conjured odd images of butterscotch frosting dried onto a puckered leather cheerio, and other such unsanitary images of varying degrees of horror to which I would say: Come now. You are *not* a child of nature, I expect that most who would consider themselves delicate, or hell, clean for that matter, would be familiar with the process of wiping with the cottony fresh two-ply until the waste has been thoroughly cleansed. Control your errant dingleberries.

I wondered if, indeed, the turd-mark had been a result of improper wiping. Or perhaps it simply fell out? After all, according to specialist C. O'Brian, certain anal activities do "make the poo fall out." And as we all know, such activities come far more easily to those with prior experience in farting large objects including kittens or sunshine. Given time to contemplate, I came to the conclusion, with a certain sense of bitter satisfaction, that the last explanation is indeed the one I will be using to tell this story to others, since at least someone unfavorable got screwed in the butt.

Further bulletins as events warrant.