Tonight I sat reading one of my fav authors (BarefootFoodie) describe the festering cesspool that is her yard. And as I later raised my head from the toilet bowl and regained the strength to return to my bloggy addiction, I was reminded of a story of my youth. It came back to me like a freight, gliding solidly through the bong resin clinging to a long forgotten cortex, the cobweb-ridden recesses of my youth-brain.
The story of the King Poopie.
My older, and wholly not wiser sister and I huddled in a tent on a camping trip in Western Canada (where most nightmares originate), and she brought me up to speed on a gastrointestinal legend she felt the need to mentor me on...
A colo-rectal Yoda, and her young jedi apprentice Polyp Boy, if you will.
Anyway, she sat and calmly explained to her wide-eyed little brother, "You see, every person has a King Poopie in them...and if you poop it out, you die.
I will simply say that I have made it past many of the issues that my family handed me over the years, but this story, for whatever reason, re-entered my consciousness tonight. And now each of our bathroom doors looks slightly more foreboding than it did before.
But rest easy, my friends. For no monarch is eager to relinquish their throne.
I bid thee, good evening.
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