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I got news for ya, that's no rock.

I got news for ya, that’s no rock.


Like Shakespeare, Hemingway, Dr. Seuss, and all the other great writers I hope someday to compose what would be considered my opus: an often painstakingly-researched novel about taking a shit in all fifty states.  I’ve only got like forty-two left to go, so my publisher is understandably getting very excited.  I took a piss in Pennsylvania once, but it was on a train so unfortunately there’s an asterisk next to it.

Last weekend I was able to finally cross out one more state in my elusive and noble goal: the Hacky Sack capital of the world known as Vermont.  To make matters even more personal, I decided to drop trou and proudly leave a shimmering brown diamond in the middle of the wilderness.  Or more accurately, after a night of drunken boobery I went to sleep in my car and woke up to what felt like the creature from Alien trying to burst it’s way out of my asshole.  I glanced around at several sleeping Jamaicans and pondered the texture of dreadlocks for wiping purposes, but snatched some napkins from the glove box instead and went on my rather dignified quest to drop a massive dook-bomb.

Having been to this particular patch of Hippie Country before, I navigated my way down a grassy hill and into the woods to build a homemade steaming log cabin down by the lake.  Then I got far enough away that the horrifying stench would forever remain trapped amongst the indifferent pine trees and unfortunate squirrels that dotted the area.  And oh boy let me tell you, when I unleashed that rancid brown demon from the depths of my bowels, it was absolutely magnificent.  Then as I’m leaving the scene of the crime what should happen but of course, two goddamn Jamaicans were walking down to the river too.  Thankfully, the sheer immensity of my intestinal product would better be explained as the doings of a Grizzly bear or Brontosaurus than a human being, so I was in the clear.

On the way out of what the locals refer to as “The Mushroom State”, I was driving by the beautiful and majestic Lookout Bridge—or whatever the hell it’s called—but I had an even more beautiful, majestic, and ironic sight in mind: deuce number dos.  I hastily parked and then quickly scurried into the woods and left my familiar calling card before scrambling back into my car and giggling madly for the entire three-hour ride home.

All right America, who’s next?



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