The Turd

So now John McCain is attacking the Pentagon because of the nature of their study on Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell!  He just doesn’t know when to quit. I wish he would go home to Arizona and stay, maybe join the Minutemen.  I’m sick to death of his trying to work out his personal shit at the expense of the American people and our fine folks in uniform.  What a frickin’ jerk, man.  Get some help for your anger issues and stop insulting the troops by assuming that they are as ignorant and bigoted as you are!

He reminds me of something I saw on the floor in the boys’ restroom at school today.

I was walking down the hall toward my reading room when a small group of boys yelled out, “Hey teacher!”  (They call all the adults “Teacher” if they don’t know your name and these weren’t students of mine.)  Come look in the bafroom!”  “Why?  What’s in the baTHroom boys?”  “Juss come look!”

I walk behind the little mob into the nearest boys’ restroom.  As soon as we walked in, the first thing I saw was another little boy standing in the middle of the floor with what looked like about a quart of foamy suds in his hands.  He must have been lathering for several minutes by now.  He was holding the white glob up to his little face and blowing enormous bubbles, one right after the other.  When what started as a small bubble had reached a circumference of about twenty inches, it would invariably pop and he’d just start another.  He was quite skillful, I’ll admit, but I was a little annoyed that the boys had drug me into the restroom just to witness this talent.  “Mmm Hmm, that’s very nice.  I think your hands are probably clean enough by now.  Why don’t you wash off the soap and y’all head on back to class.”  I spun on my heels and started to leave.  “Wait!” the boys all yelled in unison.  “Dass not what we wan you to see!”  “What then?” I was almost afraid to ask.  “Look in da stall.”  One of them said.  Afraid of what I might find, nevertheless I walked toward the tiny stalls.  When I got to the first one I looked inside.  The small toilet was just about covered with a HUGE pile of toilet paper that looked as though it had been used to wipe the chocolate frosting from a mixing bowl. (I’m guessing is wasn’t chocolate frosting.)  “Ew.” I said. “Alright, I’ll make sure it gets cleaned up.  Let’s get back to class, shall we?”  and started once again toward the door.  “NO! The third one, the third one!” they shouted.  I looked at the boys, sighed and walked toward the third stall.  I swung open the door and looked down at the floor to discover one perfect little turd purposefully laid a couple of feet in front of the bowl.  “Shit” I said, probably a little bit too loud.  The boys exploded in uproarious laughter.  “’Zactly” one of them said.

What did it mean?  Was it some form of civil protest.  A comment of the state of affairs in the 21st century American public education system?  Was it meant to be art?  Or had some kid just shat in the floor?

I guess, as with all brutally shocking forms of self-expression, the true answer will stay within the heart and mind of the artist/perpetrator.  Perhaps it was as simple as his wanting to share and thereby indelibly inscribe the image of something that had come from deep inside him on the consciousness of another.  If that was his intention, he certainly succeeded.  I won’t soon forget the image, which I have now shared with you.  My only sorrow is that its creator will never know the expansive audience his statement reached.  Such is art.

 


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