Holy Shit

Welp, you just gave a whole new meaning to christening the toilet. You shat out a gargantuan turd that may or may not have, ever-so-slightly, resembled the big man upstairs—the Lord and Savior, the Good Sheppard, the Jesus Christ—and now you have people flocking over to your place like cardinals in masses to come and check out your shit. Your local church community, the town over’s local church community, God-fearers from all parts of the country, overseas—altar boys, priests, clergymen from the Vatican—the goddamn Pope himself—coming to inspect your shit and bless it.

The problem is: it’s shit. Looks like shit. Smells like shit. And you are forbidden to flush it. Adam and his apple, forever lodged in the throats of mankind. You and your shit, forever lodged in your own personal shitter.

It’s like the water leak that soiled that house with Our Lady of Guadalupe. Or that burnt piece of toast. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Toast. Except this is the toast after it’s been digested. You wonder what you ate earlier. Definitely not notre pain quotidien. Fast food, probably. Or gas station nachos. No, definitely fast food. Your holy Big Mac with fries and a shake, please. You swallowed up some of America’s finest like it was the Last Supper and you ended up shitting out Jesus. In your one-bed-one-bath’s run-down half-broken toilet. Brown Jesus. Digested Jesus. Prince of Peace. Or rather, prince of feces. The second coming—in a wave of shit.

You called the priest at the church around the corner from you because you thought maybe you could con him out of a few bucks and that’d be that. End of the line. Simple transaction. Cash for brown gold. But what you didn’t expect was for him to bring in the whole cavalry. The Knights Templar at your door—24-hour surveillance to ensure that no one breaks in and fucks with your shit. On the plus side, in a way, it’s kind of nice. You don’t live in the best of neighborhoods. Nobody’s gonna be trying to snatch your VCR to hock it for dope as long as God’s bodyguards are hanging around.

There’s a line out your door—worshippers from all parts of the globe to witness your turd. The pious poo. The poo prophet. It’s a floater—like it’s walking on water. They’ve got some member of the Patriarch orchestrating the whole ordeal (er, ordure?) letting in groups of three at a time like it’s a goddamn theme park ride. The Holy Roller coaster. They come in, kneel down before your biblical bowel, your sacred stool, your godly guano, they say a prayer and then they leave. Art thou hallowed Hankey. And so on to the next three. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. All the way down the line.

While you’re staring at the nativity scene that is your number two, opposite the holy usher—both of you on either side of the toilet like some sacred shit brigade—you can’t help but wonder: did Jesus poop? He must’ve, right? He probably shat out some real moral manure. Crucified crap. Jewish deuce juice. My shit doesn’t have shit on His shit. What’s all the fuss about? It’s no righteous rump release. Divine dump. Sanctimonious steamer. It’s just shit. Good, old-fashioned human shit. Matthew, Mark, Luke and I used the fucking John. You smile and nod at the group of three as they thank you and motion the sign of the cross. “And also with you,” you say like a half-strung marionette because you don’t know what else you’re supposed to say. Our Father who art in thine toilet? Maybe you’ll try that one on the next group.

In they come. Signum crucis. Kneel. Bow. Reconciliation. Or whatever beef (perhaps lamb, anyone?) they may have with the Almighty. Using your turd like a divine switchboard to the heavens. A séance with the Supreme. The Creator. The One and Only. Hello, Mr. Holy Ghost. Are you there? It’s me, by way of Evangelical excrement.

Another herd of three. In and out, in and out. How many hours have passed, you think, standing there in your small bathroom with an un-flushed floater and people flowing in and out like a museum exhibit. You go to check your watch, but then you realize you’re not wearing a watch so you opt for an inconspicuous nose wipe in case anyone is watching you. Never, in all of your existence on God’s good green earth, did you think that you’d ever get a single thank you for dropping a deuce. Yet, here you are, in a matter of mere hours, being thanked by the masses. A swarm of hundreds. Thousands, maybe. That’s got to be a world record. I’ll call the Guinness Book later, you think.

But then something happens. The lights flicker. Of course, you know it’s just the building’s shoddy electrical work and the landlord’s negligence to fix it—but everyone else thinks it’s an act of God. The ethereal lord from up above. A sign! He’s communicating. It’s a fucking miracle.

And what perfect timing—the coincidence, dumb luck—the Pope rolling up in that ridiculous looking bulletproof papal transport car—the white Mercedes with the phone booth sticking up out of the back of it. Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremonial blessing of shit commences.

In he comes—the Pope, that is—to your one-bedroom apartment. You, him, and that other dude in the Men in Black uniform who’s been with you the whole time are crammed into the bathroom together. The Pope does some spiritual ritualistic hand gesturing and pours some holy water onto the floating turd—as if it wasn’t wet enough from floating around in the bowl. He closes his eyes for a moment and stands completely still. Silent. Then, he breathes in heavily (wrong move, holy man) then whirs his head around as if caught by surprise of the horrid stench emanating from the Jesus turd trying not to pass out. I mean, that’s some fast food shit. Probably some beer shits, too. That ain’t no Redeemer steamer. “Whew,” he says. “Forbidden fruit, more like forbidden fudge, eh?” Whoa. Who knew the Pope had jokes?

“My man. Right out from the downtown chocolate factory,” you say, pointing at your ass. The religious regiment (religiment? coining it) man who’s been there the whole time scolds you with dagger eyes. Apparently it’s not kosher to chime in on the fun.

Papa Pope’s holding up the Rosary now in one hand and the Bible in the other, speaking to no one in particular in Latin or Italian or whatever mother-tongue of the houses of the holy. “It is now blessed,” is all he says after his anti-climactic theatrics. And then he leaves! That’s it. From the Vatican to the one-bedroom. Five minutes tops. Peace’d the fuck out.

Everyone is applauding and cheering and hugging. Did I miss something? I don’t get it. All you’re doing is wondering if you can flush it down now. You motion toward the man who’s been there the whole time to ask him what the protocol is, but he brushes you off by shaking his head and bringing his finger to his lips. You’re definitely gonna have to move out now, you think.

So, there it is. The Holy Shit. Blessed by the Pope himself. Now, all because of you, the hive mind of the faithful idolizes, worships, and prays to a single piece of solid, floating, enshrined, steaming shit. A new relic. The symbol of God. Lord, shit almighty. A-fuckin’-men.

Rasputin in the Disco

Rasputin feels the madeira flow through his veins and the sweetness and the liquor make him feel fucking alive. The room is dark and it flickers and flashes in bright colours, there is dyed or painted paper fixed to the lanterns, the mirrors on the walls, one of them shattered, send out scraps of multi-coloured light in a thousand directions as the movement of the dancers shakes the wall its chains are attached to.

Rasputin stamps his feet and swings his head, his arms raised (one, holding a glass, tentatively) and his face shows a bliss he only ever feels when his body is engaged in these bestial, essential, human pleasures.

Like dancing, like drinking, like fucking, like prayer.

The room is full of beauty, beauties, beautiful women, beautiful young women. They aren’t beautiful because they’re young, he thinks as he stares, his body shaking and sweet wine splashing from his large right hand. They’re beautiful, he believes, because they’re women. Because woman is beautiful, because woman is life. Femininity is divine, he muses, his eyes focused on the bouncing tits of a blonde actress renowned as a hedonist. Femininity is fertility, Rasputin thinks, his head nodding to the bass and his shoulders twisting to the melody. We must love the beautiful, divine, female, he thinks, and to prove this to God we must make love to as many women as will have us.

Rasputin is taller by a foot than everyone else in the room. His beard is five times bigger than every other man’s, and the gold crucifix that swings from his neck beneath it looks like a broken pendulum as his jerky movements keep it in motion.

The dance has him gripped, his feet, his knees, his chest, his arms (he drains the last of his madeira and flings the glass towards a wall; there is a gentle twinkle of smashing glass and a booming laugh from one of the smarmy fucking aristocrats who follow him around trying to lick his bootstraps or his balls), his whole body seems to roll and shake and shudder. Sweat drips from his eyebrows, his heels tear into the wooden floor, almost splintering it beneath him, his robes float, his eyes light up and he doesn’t stop. 

The band finishes a song and in the moment of silence before the next he doesn’t stop moving, just shouts ‘Bol’she! Bol’she!’ and continues dancing to silence.

The musicians on the low stage share a look and start to play again, but Rasputin is demanding ‘Bystreye!’ over and over again. He wants the music faster, he wants more of it, he wants it constantly.

Deep breaths, pumping feet, plucking strings, fingers and arms moving with the speed and an intensity that Rasputin wants, and he floats, drunk, licking his lips and looking at the bodies of the women around him, listening to the music that fills the air, blinking into the lights that surround him from a thousand directions, the shattered mirrors, the coloured lanterns, the glow that seems to emanate from his own eyes. Rasputin dances, and Rasputin dances hard.