Turn on the Crapper
Illustration by Bob AulYou showed up at our party with a mutual friend. After a couple of drinks, several of us decided to take a swim in the community pool. I know you're at home in the water—you play water polo and swim competitively—but this was too much. You crapped in the pool. Dropped your suit and launched a schooner and then bragged about it. People leapt from the pool as if the water had become acid. Our mutual friend was appalled. Our host was disgusted and embarrassed to have to make the anonymous call to the homeowner's association for help. Watching the guy with the net attempt to fish out your turd in near darkness? That was sad. But seeing the association guy post the CLOSED BY ORDER OF HEALTH DEPARTMENT sign was worse—all those little kids unable to splash around on a hot summer evening because an adult 20 years older wouldn't control his sphincter. Knowing that you're a man who believes in the destruction of boundaries—who thumbs his nose at convention—I'm sure you appreciated the bulging gift bag of dog manure you found recently in the back seat of your sporty Eclipse.
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