Hard to be Turd

I lifted the seat lid and peeped inside.

“Do you really think you’re the main cheese here?” I asked, shaking my fist into the darkness.

“Yes.” The voice was calm, deep. “I was here before your Father was a tiny seed.”

“But you’re poo?” I’d meant that as a statement of fact. “How could you exist before Father? It isn’t possible.”

“I’m the Perfect and Mighty Poo. The Cycle of Life. The Alpha and Omega.”

I shrugged, and then flushed.

Someone knocked. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you occupied?”

“Nah.” I wiped my hands then reached for the door. “I’m done.”

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #32 [12/01/2109] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of three proofs: the biggest one, the blue one and the round one.

One of my assistants left them on my table without any identifying labels, and after this made a kerplunky little hole in the water. That’s right, she stepped into the loo bowl and sank out of sight. She never did return. Perhaps this nightmare ordeal had gotten too much. Not that I blame her.

Anyway, I had to work.

The biggest proof had more than a whiff of arsine sulfide about it. I sneezed, and placed it back on the table. Didn’t want to mess with that one.

I decided not to smell the blue proof because it looked like a dead Smurf that’d been put through a blender then snap frozen in the shape of a bow tie. I licked it instead. It tasted like… a dead Smurf that’d been put through a blender then snap frozen in the shape of a bow tie.

The dots were starting to connect.

Oh, the round proof? The less said about that the better, I guess. Let’s just say that when you squeezed it, it sounded like an asthmatic gerbil dying in an iron lung. It gave me such a fright that I nearly dropped the thing.

Did I mention that everything was becoming much clearer now?

I snapped on rubber gloves and protective goggles, took a rack from the storage cupboard, and cautiously placed the proofs upon it. Then I squelched through watery loo muck to my supervisor’s office and put the rack with the proofs on the table in front of him. He looked askance at said proofs, then at me as if I’d played an extremely offensive practical joke.

I shook my head in a helpless ‘no’, and added a shrug in case the head shake wasn’t enough. I was deadly earnest. What were these proofs actually proof of? And how did we know that they were proofs in the first place? Wasn’t the burden of proof upon these proofs to prove that they were proofs?

So, at that point I did what any sane scientist would have done: I made a kerplunky little hole in the water and stepped in. Yes, that’s right, I stepped into the loo bowl and sank out of sight as my supervisor looked helplessly on.

And the proofs? Well, no one knows what’s happened to them since.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

DARWINIAN // Feeding the Fish

“Y’know, me dear old nan used to say that it isn’t normative for a god to reveal itself supernaturally. And she was a nun!”

Bleary-eyed and rat-mouthed, Ezra Darwin squinted up at the ceiling, wondering why the clock radio wasn’t there.

“Which begs the question: What would you do to provide for your loved ones in the event of your untimely demise? Would you leave their fates to fate, or would you step up and take charge?”

Oh. That’s right. It wasn’t normative for clock radios to dwell on ceilings. Ezra turned his head. His cheek rolled into the soft, fresh swell of a pillow. God. That soothing coolness felt so damn good.

“Death can come a-knocking at any moment, so instead of praying for resurrectal intervention, why not hop on the blower and give Miracle Life Insurance a call? We’re true blue, and we bloody care.”

And there it was. The clock radio was a bit blurry and a bit… vertical, but well within reach. Ezra extended his arm and arced it downward, silencing said device with a decisive thwack. Goodbye annoying ad, and hello annoying new day! Ugh. It was time for his morning wee.

Ezra rolled onto his side, swung his feet to the floor, and sat up. Okay, so he wasn’t going to throw up yet. His head felt like a block of marinated wood with buzzing, nightmare insects for eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have downed that fifth Balkan last night.

He jerked to a standing position. Well, Ezra thought he was standing. He hoped he was standing. And why were the walls dancing around? Were they celebrating something? Surely it was too early in the morning for celebration? He tried not to move his head too much, and concentrated on aiming himself at the ensuite door. Once he was vaguely lined up with its somewhat sideways edges, Ezra lurched forward in one gangly, awkward motion.

It didn’t help that everything was too small in this apartment. Space was at an absolute premium, and there were boxes and other shit absolutely everywhere. Ezra hadn’t unpacked since his arrival nearly ten months ago. Time was slipping by at a rate of impossible deadlines and boozy binge sessions punctuated by episodes of extreme anxiety, and nothing had improved. There had to be a better way to make a living.

Ezra fumbled with himself. Shit. Was it just his imagination or was it getting harder to piss? Or was he simply dehydrated from the previous evening’s impressive, alcohol-fuelled train wreck? He should get his prostate checked. Prostate was remarkably like prostrate, which all of a sudden seemed like an outstanding career move. His junk still flapping from his trunks, Ezra resisted the impulse to fall back, and flopped forward onto the toilet bowl instead.

He was in the process of disgorging the contents of his stomach when he noticed the goldfish looking up at him.

Huh?!