Let’s Change the Subject

READERS WARNING:  The content of what follows may be considered, by some, as controversial, nay, repulsive.  Do not feel compelled to read it.  As the great Oliver Wendell Holmes said, and I quote, “Regardless of the age, there is a little 8th grader that never leaves the man.”  To which I can add… it begins on the playground in the 8th grade, proceeds at flank speed to the locker room in high school & staggers into the fraternity house in college.  The piece that follows does not include my editorial endorsement… it’s simply an attempt to faithfully record what transpired when four buddies got together.  PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

We didn’t all agree that it was a good idea when it was first presented… and this was even with the benefit of a whisky or two.  You know how it is… knock back a few… the laughs come easier, the ideas are sharper, insights are more incisive.  It doesn’t stop there… we become younger, thinner, better looking… and there isn’t a woman who could resist our irrepressible charms.  Particularly when you’re the starting backfield of the Conference Champion… granted, a couple of decades removed.

There we were… Walter, “nom de guerre“: Stuffy (because he could “stuff” it across a goal line), William: The Hulk (our blocking machine), Lewis: Sweet Lew (he of fancy moves & did it all) and me: Killer (because I wasn’t).  Our custom is to gather a couple of times a year to review past glories and share present day ups & downs.

The location and bar tab is handled on a rotational basis.  On the evening of the story I am about to relate, we were on my “home field”: the Ash Creek Saloon.  I was just about to ask James for my third Wild Turkey when the William came up with his great idea, “Why don’t we have a long turd contest?”

Killer: What?

Hulk:  A long turd contest.  We’ll all take a dump and see whose turd is the longest.

Sweet Lew:  Great! Sorta like parallel play. And afterwards we can put down our special towels on the floor, listen to a story and take a nap in the solarium.

Stuffy: Long turd contest? That’s disgusting!

Killer: Man, that’s a new low… even for you, you disgusting pig!  Where the fuck did you come up with that revolting idea?

Hulk: One day last week I took my normal morning dump… and I don’t remember what I had eaten… but when I get up I’m staring at one continuous turd that curved around the bowl… it was amazing!  I didn’t want to flush it!  It had to be a record!  How do you think something like that happens?”

Killer:  Maybe it had to do with the tides…

Stuffy:  Too bad you didn’t have your cell phone.  You could have taken a picture and sent it around.

Sweet Lew:  Yeah.  We might have gotten you a grant from the National Endowment of the Arts.

Stuffy:  Or we could have sent it to the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine and they could have put it into their Hall of Turds… along side of specimens from Teddy Roosevelt, Shoeless Joe Jackson & Isadora Duncan.

Hulk:  I’m serious.

Killer:  You’re gross.  Let’s change the subject.  How ’bout “What I did on summer vacation”… I’m first… I ran over a raccoon on the Merritt Parkway

Sweet Lew:  Oh, that’s an improvement!

Hulk:  No… hear me out.  This could be like the new thing.  Like Fight Club; but without the blood and loss of teeth.  The “Long Turd Club”… to be a member you have to drop a deuce of a certain minimum length… say 18”.  Two members have to certify the length…

Killer:  Oh, Jesus… I can’t believe this.

Stuffy:  I imagine it has to be a certified bowl as well.  Like taking a shit in the woods wouldn’t count?  Say… I’ve been meaning to ask you, Killer… and I’m going to change the subject…why don’t you like the New York Jets.

Killer:  That’s not correct.  It’s not that I don’t like the Jets.  I hate the Jets…

Sweet Lew: Uh, oh… here it starts… Tragedies of our lifetime: the War in Vietnam and the New York Jets.

Killer: I’m a Colts fan!  Need I say more?  Super fucking Bowl III!!  The first NFL team to take it on the chin from the old AFL.  You should only know the personal shame I have had to deal with all these years.

Sweet Lew:  But the Colts won the Super Bowl last year.  Can’t you give it a rest?

Killer:  That can’t remove the stain.  Ten Super Bowls couldn’t remove the stain!  Well… maybe ten Super Bowls could remove the stain… that and if Joe Namath appeared before the United Nations General Assembly and admitted that he was a douche bag… him and his Goddamned Fu Manchu moustache!

Stuffy:  Killer, a Fu Manchu would be a good look for you…

Killer:  I hate Joe Namath… the most over rated QB in the solar system.  I hate Joe Namath and Mark Gastineau!  Hulk… what do you think Coach would have done if you did a “celebration sack dance” after tackling a QB for a loss?  I tell you what he would have done… he would have benched your ass!  I hate the Jets… for all eternity.

Sweet Lew:  Tell us what you really think Killer…

Killer:  If my Mother, may she rest in Peace, were playing for the Jets I would hate her, too!

Sweet Lew: Well, that explains a lot.  I think that Hitler hated his Mother.

Killer:  Hitler’s Mother didn’t play for the Jets… and besides… he resented his Father, he loved his Mother.  Did you know that the Fuhrer was a great dancer?

Sweet Lew:  What would have happened if Hitler played for the Colts?

Killer:  Then I would have been seriously conflicted.  James — another Wild Turkey please.

Hulk:  Maybe it could be a team sport.

Killer: What?

Hulk:  Well… you know… sorta like curling.  You know that sport… one person launches that thing, and another guy scrapes the ice in front of the thing and another sweeps the ice.  A team.  We could do the same thing… one guy picks out a stall, one guy drops the turd, and another guy settles the bowl down to make sure that the turd remains intact.

Killer: What?

Hulk: Intact.  If the turd breaks apart it’s like falling backwards in the Long Jump pit.  It’s worse than a foul in basketball. The turd has to be kept whole… that’s the point:  one long, continuous, glorious turd.

Killer:  I’m glad we got that point cleared up. I can’t believe this…

Hulk:  That’s why the “Bowl Master” is such an important part of the team.  Retaining the shape and length is essential.  Water dynamics is the key.  We need an engineering expert.  Hey!  Killer you went to Union College… didn’t they have an engineering department?

Stuffy:  Engineering expert?  Well, that leaves out Lew.

Sweet Lew:  What a crushing disappointment.  I was looking forward to measuring turds and controlling the water pressure.

Stuffy:  We’ll put you in as the first alternate… and, for the meantime, pencil you in as “Flush and Clean Technician”.

Sweet Lew:  Why do I think that I am getting screwed?

Killer: “Flush and Clean Technician”?  That sounds like a better position.  I’ll bet you’ll attract all the chicks.

Sweet Lew:  Let’s change the subject.  The Spotted Owl is making a come back.  That means we can cut down trees again, or begin eating owls.  Hulk… have you ever eaten owl?

Hulk:  Yes… YES!  I think you’re on to something!!  Chicks!  We’ve got to have cheerleaders!  Sure… it’s perfect!!  I’m sure that Carole will come down from Vermont.  She’ll call Barbara.  I’m sure Alison will be game…

Killer: What?

Hulk:  We’ve got to have cheerleaders… for the team.

Sweet Lew:  That works… take a shit, take a shit… take a loooooong shit!  They can work out the dance steps.

Killer:  Wait a second.  You keep talking team.  This still sounds like an individual sport to me.

Hulk:  Killer you wound me.  It’s about the team.  I see leagues popping up all over.  “in-town” teams, “travel” teams… who knows?  Maybe it could become an Olympic Sport.

Killer:  You know what I think?  There are evenings like this when I am grateful that Kentucky is a part of the Union… and I have a ready access to Bourbon.  William, friend… teammate… I think that you should go home, fill your bathtub with warm tapioca pudding and sit in it ’til this episode passes.  Then you should get up, pick up your hand held Stop Sign and go to the cross walk and help the kids cross the street.

Sweet Lew:  I like the idea of leagues.  Sorta like dart teams being sponsored by saloons and bars.  It would be fun… like Tuesday night could be “Turd Night.”  the location shifts each week.  the Home Team supplies the buffalo wings and TP.

Killer: It’s time to change subjects.  Resolved: FDR was the first President to wear boxer shorts.

Stuffy:  It’s a Democrat thing.  Hilary Clinton wears boxer shorts, too.

Sweet Lew:  It’s OK.  J. Edgar Hoover dressed in drag and Joe Namath wore panty hose in December games.

Killer: I hate Joe Namath.  Maybe he should be made the Commissioner of the North American Long Turd Federation.  Perfect.  Commissioner of Shit.

Sweet Lew:  Let’s not get started…

Hulk:  Do you think that style points should be awarded for the colour of the turd?

Stuffy: Colour and pattern.  Triple bonus points if the turd is in a recognizable pattern… houndstooth, check, herringbone…

Hulk:  I think that it should be aesthetic as well as athletic.

Stuffy: That sounds too close to rhythmic gymnastics and ballroom dancing.  You may have to count me out.

Hulk:  This should be an uplifting and cleansing sport.  A sport that involves pride & the senses… a sport steeped in rich historical tradition.

Killer: This should be good…

Hulk: It began with the Greek guy who ran all the way from the Battlefield at Marathon to the Athens.  It was thought that he ran the 26+ miles to bring news of the Greek Victory over the Persians.  That’s the traditional view… But, in truth, the reason he ran all that way was that he had “to go”… he couldn’t find a decent bathroom… just the kind like they have in England, with the tank above and you crap on to a dry shelf…

Stuffy:  *uch*  I hate those toilets…

Hulk:  Yeah, the Greek guy didn’t like it either.  So he had to hold it in, see.  He ran all that way… the guy barely made it to Athens.  He took the biggest dump of his life and then died.  To this day in Greece he is known more for his shit then for running the distance.  Go ahead… ask any Greek who Pheidippides is and they’ll say, “are you shitting me?”  See?  Tradition!

Stuffy:  Before this goes too far a field, I just want to say right now… that if the Team goes overseas I am not taking a shit in any English toilet, even if it would make the measurement phase easier.  That’s final!  If those guys want to compete… they got to come here!!  American Standard all the way, baby!

Killer: The next subject for discussion: “the tickle treatment and its use as an instrument of torture.”  The tickle treatment goes back to the Spanish Inquisition.  They would begin tickling you, and tickling you… you couldn’t repent if you wanted to, you were laughing so hard!  You’d be laughing so much that it hurt and you couldn’t feel a thing when they ripped out your finger nails and poured hot molten silver into your eyes and ears.

Stuffy:  For real?  The way I got it figured… this Inquisition guy just liked to hear Jews laugh.

Sweet Lew:  Forget about that.  When do we start training?  The great thing about this sport is there is no age restriction!

Killer:  I have this vision of Adolph Hitler, wearing a Jets uniform, taking a shit while eating a Spotted Owl.

Stuffy:  I thought he was a vegetarian.

Sweet Lew:  I have this vision:  Joe Namath dressed in a spotted owl suit, having lunch with Adolph Hitler watching a tape of Super Bowl III.

Killer:  That really hurt.

Stuffy:  Boys… I don’t think this is going to work.  It’s too controversial.  Maybe we could form a “Fart Team”… I think that would be more acceptable… more main stream… easier to get commercial tie-ins and endorsement contracts.  Geeze, Killer… you could give up your day job and become a touring pro!

Sweet Lew:  Does this mean that we have to give up the cheerleaders?

Stuffy:  Absolutely not!  I’ll call Carole tomorrow…

Hulk:  If anyone wants to see my last dump, I left a qualifying example in the john… stall on the right.

Killer:  That’s good news… I was sort of disappointed that we didn’t get to see the prize winner that was the source of your inspiration.

Sweet Lew:  Let’s change the subject.  Killer, would you like another Wild Turkey?  You’re buying!

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