Never AgainYou're really huffing and puffing on the toilet to the point where a few drops of sweat slide down your crack as you squeeze one out. And then, after a few minutes, the water ripples and then it's quiet. You thoughtlessly grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe. Top to bottom, bottom to top, the sideways shuffle, it doesn't matter. Just going through the motions at this point, you press the thin paper against your skin, completely unaware of the magic your ass just made.
When you finish wiping, you, out of noble and scientific curiosity, pull the toilet paper out to check the status. Expecting a smudge, a streak, a spot or two, you lift the paper up, and what you see is shocking. You stare at the toilet paper, slightly crumpled, but still perfectly white, and in the confusion, you lift it up to your nose. Smells clean. But how? Nonsensical. Preposterous. There must be something wrong. User error. Perhaps you missed. So, just to double check, you swipe the wad through your ass again, pressing harder, dragging it up, down, blotting it a few times, then back to the top. But, just like the first attempt, the results remain the same. Spotless.
But wait, you think, didn't I just shit? And while you remember the noises, the strain and sweat, and the years and years you've gone through the same process, you can't help but think you've messed something up. Did you forget a step? You lean over and glance into the bowl expecting to see something Pauly Shore might call a "gnarly dook," but it's just water as still and pristine as Lake Superior.
No, this can't be. You know for a fact that there should be something there. Right? Right? Are you going crazy? Aside from your great-uncle's constant masturbation problem, your family has no history of mental illness, so why are you losing your mind? You try to think of a reasonable explanation to the situation. Nothing makes sense, but eventually one thing comes to mind: Ghost Turd. Spectral shit is haunting your bowels. A little far fetched, but given the circumstances, it's logical, and that is good enough. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing that you are sane and the problem is fixable. You've seen enough movies about haunted houses to know how to vanquish the spirits. All you have to do now is find the cursed Indian skeleton who's haunting your rectum.
Content, you stand up and take one last glance at the toilet, and from your new angle you are able to see deeper into the hole, and believe it or not, a little bit of your feces is poking out from the darkness. No, your turd isn't phantasmic, just hiding.
Having evidence that something came out of your body and is part of the natural realm brings all the questions back. How did it get so far back there? Was it something you ate that caused it to sink so fast? If no one can see it, do you need to flush? And what about the toilet paper? It's still clean, right? Perfect almost. Maybe you could fold it on the dotted line and set it on top of the roll for later use. Would anyone use it? Would you use it? Do your hands even need washed? It isn't like they got dirty or anything.
Need Not Bother
But the questions disappear once you realize that you are the first person in human history to ever have these questions. Since the dawn of mankind, this has never been pondered. For millions and millions of years our species has relied on extra tools to clean the shit shrapnel, and now your asshole has found a way to do it on its own. Call Darwin. This is fucking evolution, my friend. You have passed the ranks of human, and the need for Charmin, Cottonelle, or that one-ply bargain junk is no more. You think about all the people who said you'd never amount to anything, well, if only they could see you now. Those fools with their degrees and spouses think they are so great. Ha. They might have homes and full time jobs, but they still rely on toilet paper. Ha. Ha. They are chimps to you, because you're a new species. Human 2.0. The butt of the future. Scientists will want to study your ass, and you will let them. The government will mate you with millions, and you will let them. You will want money and power, and they will let you. The world will be a better place because of you passing your genes on. Eugenics is back, baby, and you're the seed dispense.
It is, you determine, a miracle. If you keep eating Taco Bell, you should be eligible for sainthood by the end of the week. Yes, the Canonized Ass. History will remember your ability. In the future, because toilet paper is no longer needed, there will be flying cars. AIDS and cancer will be no more because of your ability. You think about what has been granted to you, about the endless possibilities. Shitting need not slow you down.
People will come from across the world to learn from you. Jesus, Siddhartha, Abraham, the one with a ton of arms, and now you. They all had to use words and tricks to get followers, but soon you'll have more than all of them combined using only your ass. The world is your oyster. Everything is possible. And, best of all, now you can& wait. Oh man. Your show is back on. You toss the wad of toilet paper in the bowl and flush before heading back to the television without washing your hands. Until next time, Miracle Ass. Until next time.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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