This post is about turds. That's the last time I will use that particular noun, because I know that some of you are a tiny bit sensitive about it, but that's what this post is about, and if you can't handle it, click away and read about something else.
So. I have a child who will remain nameless in case he ever decides to run for public office--I don't want his opponent to dig up this particular "dirt" on him, if you know what I mean.
My children are all above average in many ways--intelligence, beauty, talent, kindness--you name it, they are setting the curve. But one of my children has an unsung talent that will never get him a slot on American Idol or into an Ivy League university; this ability lies far outside of the scope of winning friends and influencing people.
This child, let's call him Stinky, has the most efficient bowel in the history of bowels. His colon does not waste any effort on inefficient, space-wasting production. His intestines don't feel the need to make deliveries every day. Rather, they conserve their energy, use every last square micromillimeter of space, and eventually evacuate an enormous log of solid poo, as dense and shiny as a granite countertop.
These tree trunks of excrement are a modern miracle of human digestion and elimination. Every time one comes out--about every three days or so, after an hour-long stomach-ache--Stinky proudly calls us into the bathroom to pay homage. The rest of the family comes running, and you'd think we were looking at a fabulous sculpture or a six-foot-high tower of playing cards.
"Oh, wow. Stinky, dude, that's gotta be 20 inches long!" one exclaims.
"Man. That's going to be a four-flusher," says Mr. Peevie grimly, being the Vice President in charge of toilet plunging.
"Ew, gross! Disgusting! My eyes are watering!" says another.
"How did that thing even fit inside of him?" we wonder aloud. "No wonder he had a stomach ache. It's bigger than his thigh!"
Stinky just hangs his head modestly and says, "I'm hungry."