son of mayor of dump city, by mark antony rossi

My father wrote a terrific (or horrific) flash fiction about a man’s awful bout with traveling diarrhea. Anything that mentions a grown man pooping his pants promises to piss off people who can’t appreciate a bad pun. But shit happens and sometimes you are forced to drive your date back home smelling like you slam dunked your underwear in a three-month-old vat of moldy milk chocolate.

She didn’t kiss you goodnight. Maybe because it wasn’t a goodnight for her staring at a waiter’s butt for an hour while you blow whale blubber out the wazoo. Be glad she didn’t slug you when you mentioned the megadump was nearly big enough to have its own social security number. Filthy fecal floaties aren’t the only thing you flushed that night. She’s gone. Like a bad pancake in a water treatment facility.

These episodes don’t work well with guys either. Who can maintain a healthy friendship through a double filter gas mask switched to nuclear setting. And how do you explain killing cockroaches with splashed toilet water. Those things are capable of surviving an atomic holocaust. Yet you can destroy them with dirty ass acid. Male bonding has its limits.

I would rather not sound philosophical but I truly wonder if you are a booty bio-bomb away from perpetual loneliness. Have you tested your family? Your friends? Your supply of toilet paper? The strength of your bleach to make white again your undergarments? It’s one thing to talk shit and quite another to have microscopic bacteria weaponize your rectum like a Chinese-made Roman candle.

Examine your feelings and have a social battle plan before you launch brown zucchini’s down a river of rainbow chemicals potentially hyper evolving into mud monsters menacing Tokyo. The fault is yours. It’s too late for celery. You chose fast food over fiber. You chose to ice pick your colon until it looked like a garden hose run over twenty times by a riding lawn mower. Eat healthy. Save a tree. Stop shitting.

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