So a friend told me a hilarious story that I can’t repeat because its his story and he will doubtless write it but it involved childhood humiliation and turds. Listening to him tell it I had to lie down on the floor. I was preparing to meet my maker. I was thinkinghow in my first moments in Heaven I would have to explain that it was the word “poop” that killed me. I was thinking that everyone in Heaven would admit they also died of scatological shock. And yes the very thought made me happy. Lordy!Isn’t it great that dung is still funny? Isn’t it marvelous to contemplate an afterlife that’s sparked by a vast, collective shit hemorrhage?
I think this is a cheerful thought. What’s the opposite of entropy? Shit. What’s the opposite of situational depression? Shit. When my maternal grandfather died and our family was picking out his casket my uncle Mert tracked dog shit all over the funeral home up and down streaking the Persian carpets and the runners on the stairs and while the funeral director was declaiming the advantages of “the Conquistador–the coffin that conquers death”–well, seeing those blobs of shit all over the place caused first one of us and then all of us to break down laughing. And then the funeral director said: “No one has ever laughed in here before”but he said it with the neutrality of someone born without a medulla and therefore we laughed all the harder. Sweet Christ on a crutch! We had to get out of there.
I think rubber shit is funny. I think Freud was right about shit–its the same thing as money. I think its funny to think about astronauts and shit. I think the cuneiform mystic shit that follows the circus has instructions in it about how to arrive at the pearly gates. I feel better just thinking about this. Ain’t caca grand?
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 
Yep, dog turds can be pretty funny, to wit:
My friend Caroline has two American Eskimo dogs, dogs which are smallish, weighing about 25 pounds. One day, just before going to calling hours at a local funeral home, she walked her dogs, then went on her way. It was a sad scene, of course, lots of moaning and wailing. Caroline was trying to come up with just the right comforting words to pass on to the bereaved family. She stuck her hand deep into her coat pocket, trying to collect her wits. And discovered that she had forgotten to deposit the dog turds into the garbage before she left. They were nestled snugly in a small plastic bag in her coat pocket.
Lucky the dogs were small.
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