Consider yourself warned.

Now, normally, when I take a dump, I can produce a nice, long log. A rich, dark brown log, often a little bit fibrous as if it were part of, say, DC Comic’s Swamp Thing.

I recall traveling to the Marshall Islands with my friend, Kurt, who would drag me out of my room to his bathroom to show me the immense turds he produced. He was so impressed with one that he didn’t want to flush the toilet. Ultimately, he took a picture of it so he could show it to his wife later. This was in the days before digital cameras, you young whipper-snappers, so know that somebody had to develop that photo.

Anyhow, at that time, I despaired of ever being able to produce dookie like that.

Then, I got fat.

Man, the best thing about being fat is taking a dump. Sitting on the toilet, with whatever book you are currently reading, is an aesthetic pleasure. I have read that there are monks who are able to poop out the ends of their intestines temporary so they can wash them. Since I’ve been fat, they are the only ones I envy.

Well, they and people who receive anal sex. I still envy them. I figure that must be like one really long dump. I would be into that except, apparently, people get offended if you try to read the sports section while they are drilling your ass.

This last month, I went on a diet. A low carb, low sugar, no caffeine diet. As many of you know, I need to lose fifty pounds, so this seemed to be the best possible strategy.

“Plus,” I thought, “maybe I’ll poop all fifty pounds out.”

That would be glorious.

Imagine my disappointment when after three days on the diet not only hadn’t I pooped, but I didn’t even feel the need to poop. No constipation, no nothing.

I finally did pass one after a few days. A pathetic little lump that Kurt wouldn’t have even thought about twice before flushing.

Then something strange happened. First, the color of my poop changed from rich brown to hard seal grey. Then, the shapes started, well, changing.

I am not saying I am pooping Skrulls or anything, but, damn, the turds look bizarre. Yesterday, I swear one looked like a manatee, breaching its portly head above the brackish water. Today, I swear to God I squeezed out something that looked like Dom De Louise.

So, while my trips to the bathroom are not successes in the “Massive Pile of Shit” department, they are inspiring none the less.

Apparently, my colon is more artistically creative than I am.

Sure, many of you knew that already, but, my point is, I now have concrete proof.

Well, if concrete were soft.