Talking Shit.

Please note:  The following was posted on Facebook a while ago (back in 2012, hence the Mayan apocalypse reference.  Enjoy.)

I've never been afraid of shit.

I mean this in the literal sense: I was raised in Davie, Fl, and to live there is to know shit on a very personal level. I've been around cow shit, horse shit, chicken shit, goat shit, elephant shit (Swap Shop anyone?.) You name it, I've been experienced its excrement.

And I've changed plenty of diapers, from cousins to nieces and nephews and my own kids, I've smelled it all, from the black primordial ooze of meconium to the bright mustard yellow toxic sludge that my nephew would befoul the world with.

My own kids are capable of spewing their share of pestilential loads, and I've learned to live with their noxious leavings with aplomb. I don't even cringe anymore.

But what I just experienced has aged me beyond my years. What Arthur just...committed is beyond a sin and can only be described as an abomination.

This was not a smell, but rather a vicious assault deep into my nasal cavities. That stench is now firmly seated in my bones, a malignant presence that may never be scoured clean. I don't need a shower, I need an exorcism.

The mess itself was indescribable, and looked like mankind's doom made manifest. The normal question that arises from encountering such blights is to inquire as to what the child has been eating, but the only answer that can suffice is THE SOULS OF THE DAMNED.

It is time to accept the sinister truth: My child's ass is possessed. I fear that his bottom has become a gateway to the realm of Azathoth, the blind idiotic nuclear chaos at the dark heart of the universe.

This necrostool he has made is the herald of Kali Yuga, and the end times are upon us all. Expect the flocks of flesh eating worm-crows to wheel overhead and the rivers of boiling pitch to fill the streets any day now, because the Mayans were right.

And I think I need to wash out that diaper pail at the very least. Because DAMN.