I haven't always been a connoisseur of dung - a scatologist, to be precise - but having owned cats most of my adult life, I've managed to find myself face to face with the feces of the species on a regular basis. Speaking of regular, let me pass on a little advice to my older readers: mineral oil. Just a teaspoon a day and you will have no, I repeat NO more problems with contipation. Now, getting back to the main theme of this post - crap - I realized one day, while watching my leashed dog hump and pump out a couple of caramel-colored logs, that I have had an intimate relationship with my own guano as long as I can remember. As a matter of fact, I can't think of a period in my life when I didn't have to drop the children off at the pool, unless you count that time I duct taped my external sphincter for a week on a dare. Ah, the stupidity of youth. If I had kept my butthole taped much longer I would have had to go into public service. But that's beside the point. In addition to my own personal experience with toilet muffins, and the daily rendezvous with my kitty's egesta, I have, on occasion, had to tread carefully in certain public places just to avoid marrying the soles of my shoes with another animal's excrement. There is nothing fun about scraping some german shepard's fresh tootsie rolls off my Reeboks. Yet, even while cleaning out the hills and valleys of my sneakers with my fingernails, I still find stool wonderfully captivating. Now, don't get judgemental on me. I know for a fact that as soon as you pinch off a few loaves into the pot, you turn around and look at them just before sending them to the nearest fresh water supply. Yes, you MUST examine it, mustn't you? If you find yourself staring down at an obsidian sample floating in the loo, you call your doctor immediately and share with whomever answers the phone every last detail of that mutant turd that had just been squeezed out of your colon. Oh, yes, you will take pictures, too, and will not hesitate scooping the specimen into an empty toilet paper roll and then dropping it into the nearest sandwich bag before screaming to the nearest medical facility, and then almost fainting in gratitude when a tepid technician slices it, smears it on a slide and stares at it through his microscope then tells you it was caused by your eating those three bags of licorice the day before. I know, oh, yes I do, that time you pushed one out so long that it circled the circumfrence of the bowl twice and had the overwhelming urge to call all your family members together to witness your glory. Oh, indeed I do. But unlike you, amateur poopy-dooper, I acknowledge my ongoing awe with manure of all shapes, sizes and smells. I could tell you stories that would make your anus stand on its own, but I won't, because I know you won't appreciate the time I found a completely intact Baby Ruth bar encased in a thin layer of excreta, somehow swallowed whole and still as wonderfully nutty and chewy at the end as it was from the beginning. You would never fully comprehend the physics of corn kernal preservation, or the beautiful dookie art found on the wall of a local McDonald's bathroom. No, I will save and savor my observations and memories in the hope that someday a University may find my research worthy of Grant monies, and then I'll be sitting on top of the pile looking down on all you dung haters. Then I'll be the shit. Just wait and see. And don't forget "mineral oil'.