Superior Air

Not long ago, I found a $1 bill -- folded together with shit caked in the middle -- in the trash can under my desk. People were intrigued.

I took it around and showed everyone. I analyzed the whole thing in excessive detail. Like, for instance, it wasn't dog shit. It was human shit. How do I know? I just know, because I'm an expert.

If somebody hates me, they did the wrong thing to get under my skin. If somebody thought I might think it's funny, they were right. If somebody just felt the random urge to wipe with a $1 bill and throw it in the first random trash can, they might need some help.

I have a strange obsession with potty humor. I freely admit it.

I've crapped my pants and worn an adult diaper and told everybody I possibly could about it.

My oldest son, when he was about 3, once passed gas and said, "I blew smoke out my poo-poo way." He said it in all seriousness and had no idea how indelibly that phrase would stick with me.

Still, there's something I can't quite figure out.

There's something out of place. Something at my workplace.

When I go to the restroom, I don't like people to know I'm going to take a dump.

Actually, not just people in general, but certain people. And I can't exactly explain who those people are. I might walk in and see someone and say to myself, "Oh, I don't care if he knows I'm about to stock the pond," but, usually, it's just not cool with me.

I won't make a big show of having a newspaper in my hand if someone is passing by in the hall as I walk into the restroom. If I walk in and someone is at the sink, I'll walk out and go to another floor.

If someone is in the accompanying stall, I might also walk out. If I don't, the only way I stay is if I get the stall that has a solid wall on one side. Never just stall walls on either side.

Maybe it has to do with my attitude toward others. If I walk into the restroom and have to hold my breath while I pee at the urinal, and then I see the dude who has tainted the atmosphere I have to breathe, I tend to have a sense of superiority about me.

Along the lines of "Damn, something crawled up in him and DIED!"

I think that's one thing. I don't want people smelling something coming out of me. I like gas for the sound it makes and the relief it brings, not the smell. I never want anyone to smell it.

I also feel so ... defenseless.

My highest-level supervisor could be washing his hands, oblivious and aloof, but I still succumb to the numbing fear that he's going to pass by the stall door and say, "WHEW! Somebody got something that crawled up in them and DIED!"

Even if I make it in with no one spotting me, I still feel like they know who I am in there. What if I cough? You can hear someone cough and know who they are. I realized that in the restroom one time when I heard a guy cough. Forevermore, I see him as someone who has a lot of stink going on inside him.

What about when my sunglasses fall off the top of my head and onto the floor and slide over to the guy next to me? I quickly grab them, saying nothing, because I so don't want someone picking them up, handing them to me and saying, "Here you go, Eric. You dropped these."

It's my fault.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone busts into the stall next to me, makes a bunch of heaving sighs, pulls his pants down and explodes.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone will answer his cell phone.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone will pull off one piece of toilet paper and then flush and leave.

And each time, I sit there, smugly, shaking my head and grinning: "Damn, that guy was taking a shit."

Warning: (Graphic) Graphic

Oh, boy.

So, this is how South Carolina serves barbeque. At least according to an industry trade association (which is full of what I've experienced as being a bunch of generally nice guys).

Interesting piece of trivia that might one day save you from some sadistic psychopath's torture chamber: South Carolina is the only state in the union that serves the four different flavor bases of barbeque.

For those of you outside the South -- ie. above the Mason-Dixon line, or in Florida -- barbeque here is both a verb and a noun. We eat barbeque. We barbeque things. We barbeque barbeque.

I'm partial to the mustard-based. To say that publicly is to risk inciting a culture war. We're territorial as shit down here.

As you can see, the graphic illustrates these differences -- and how liking mustard-based barbeque can be seen as a more ... volatile ... choice:

Notice how the mustard-based barbeque is overtly aggressive, thrusting itself through the vinegar base and between the softer-toned tomato and light-tomato bases. Truly exerting its dominance, creating a wedge between the two tomato flavors and stamping out any possibility of compromise.

Like ... a ... well ...

I showed this graphic to my boss, a woman nearly double my age and one of the most motherly kinds of people you'll meet.

I was talking about how interesting I thought this was. All four bases! Praise be to Allah!

And then it hit me. I started laughing. And couldn't stop -- even though I wanted nothing more than to be able to stop. Then she started laughing. That made me even more uncomfortable. The more she laughed, the more I laughed, the more I wanted it all to be over so I could give in to the all-overs and shake off my embarrassment.

Then, she stopped chuckling and took a breath.

"Yeah, that's funny. It looks like a hurricane."

Umm ... yeah ... that's what I was thinking, too.

Haiku #3-K

Three, first day of school
Baby no more; last baby
Both hands clasp tightly.

Colorless

From the wrist, cold water drips to the hardwood floor, disturbing the pool with each new drop of melted refridgerator ice.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

---

A million bio-electrical salvos attack under the skin.

Sizzle the left forearm.

Then stop.

Then explode again.

Sting the right elbow.

Scars painted by desperate fingernails are the only sign of the riot of synapses raging underneath.

Voices that describe you have returned:

"There is an inevitable end."

Ssssss ...

"You had time to do it, but I had to do it for you."

Ssssss ...

"This won't stop. Not this time."

Ssssss ...

"You can't feel."

Ssssss ...

"These voices do nothing but describe."

Ssssss ...

---

Ice melts down the forearm, a temperatureless conflagration beneath.

Trails of water snake around, and down, and around, and down.

Coalescing into a droplet.

Pausing.

At the wrist, over the pulse ...

Pump. Drip.

Pump. Drip.

Pump. Drip.

Onto the floor.

Colorless.

Down And Out In Outer Space

'It was a conspiracy,' a drunken Pluto says in exclusive interview


By Chu E. Baka
The Georgetown (S.C.) Tattler
OUTER SOLAR SYSTEM BUREAU

Pluto has fallen on hard times in the week since his humiliating demotion -- binging on hard liquor, inciting brawls and threatening suicide.

In an exclusive, tell-all interview a week after being stripped of his title as the ninth planet of the solar system, Pluto tells The Tattler he "was used and tossed out like a cheap Las Vegas wedding dress" in what he described as "a jealous plot" to sabotage his "enigmatic charm."

"I never felt like I was a part of the quote unquote, 'clique', you know?" Pluto said as he wobbled in his already eccentric orbit, continuing a seven-day bender on Red Bull and Everclear.

"I never had fancy rings like Saturn," he said. "I'm butt ugly, but I'm way out here, you know? With all these big guys with lots of pretty colors. And, yes, Uranus is exactly what you'd expect him to be: a huge asshole."

In 1930, Pluto was named the solar system's ninth planet after astronomer Clyde Tombaugh discovered him. The designation was always surrounded by a shroud of doubt, however, as astronomers regularly debated whether Pluto was, in fact, really a planet.

That debate was settled Aug. 24 when the International Astronomical Union voted to strip Pluto of his planetary status and classify him as a "dwarf planet" along with three other solar objects found in recent years.

"I'll never understand," Pluto said, as he crushed a beer can onto his icy surface. "The kids loved me. Maybe it was because of that dog. Or maybe it was my mysterious, aloof je-ne-sais-quoi. I mean, I was a bonnet rouge, a gnat among giants out here. Now I realize these guys were just faux amis, bourgeois snobs. Hey, do you know where the pisser is, mon ami?"

Pluto vomited and collapsed to the floor.

"Oh, God, he's talking in French again," said Charon, Pluto's like-sized moon, whispering to avoid another belligerent Pluto tirade. Charon is considered Pluto's most-trusted confidant, particularly because their orbits are such that they always present the same face to one another.

"I still don't understand him," she said. "That planet will always be an enigma to me. I've tried to talk to him, console him, but he just shouts at me, 'What do you care?! You weren't a planet!' I never know what to say, except, 'Well, I almost was."

Just before voting Pluto out, the IAU had been considering expanding the solar system to 12 planets -- Charon, UB313 (nicknamed "Xena" after its discovery in 2003) and Ceres (a body in the asteroid belt between Jupiter and Mars that was named a planet in the 1800s only to be stripped of its status).

"They screwed Ceres over, too," Pluto said, as he regained consciousness and picked himself up from a pool of vomit. "I'll tell you who did it: Halley's Comet. She did both of us in, man. That dirty, two-timing succubus. Sometimes I don't know why I even bother trying to be a part of this solar system. I only get arond the sun every 248 years. Maybe a black hole will consume me and take me out of my misery."

Pluto claims that he and Halley's Comet had a private conversation not long before Halley's last visit to Earth in 1986. Pluto confided in Halley that he was unsure how to handle the attention of being considered the "eighth planet" for a short time.

Pluto's odd orbit is such that it crosses Neptune's orbit for various periods of time and is, in fact, closer to the Sun. This was the case from 1979 to 1999.

Pluto had established a newfound fame because of this phenonmenon and began to leave his shaky public perception behind -- but he was concerned about "showing up" his nearest planetary neighbor, whom he considered a "nice guy."

Jealousy, Pluto said, led Halley's during her last visit to Earth to mislead astronomers about Pluto's feelings regarding his temporary moment in the spotlight.

Astronomers were once again soured, perceiving Pluto as being too "big for his britches."

"Halley's always wanted to be the tenth planet," Pluto said. "I understand what it's like to want that. I really do, because I wanted it for so long. But I never thought she'd do this. She spread lies about me all across the solar system."

He declined, however, to specify any fabrications.

"I just want her to keep my name out her mouth from now on," Pluto said. "So I'm not going to put her name in my mouth anymore."

When contacted by The Tattler, Halley's said, "No comment. And don't say I said, 'No comment.' No comment means no comment, not 'No comment.' This comet isn't saying 'No comment' -- but, no, I don't have a comment to give you. Maybe I'll have something to say when I return to Earth in 2061."

The last time Neptune saw Pluto, he said the planet he affectionately referred to as "Lil' Plute" seemed "on top of the world, whatever world that might be."

"Yo, you know, me and 'Lil Plute was kickin' back in '79, you know," Neptune said. "It was cool and all. He was like, 'Hey, I hope you don't mind this.' And I told him, 'Naw, partna, it's yo show for the next 20 years. You my boy. Then, 20 years later, you know, you could tell he was all, like, at peace or whatever."

By the time they meet again in 221 years, Neptune says he hopes Pluto will have "gotten outta that funk" so the two can "sip on some Grey Goose" and "philosophize on the Big Bang and that string theory shit."

Neptune says Pluto was simply a victim of "hatin' the playa and not tha' game."

Asked about Halley's role, Neptune declined to elaborate.

"Yo, man, I don't even mess with skanks like that, he said. "Too much drama. I just try to get along, man. Check it, Uranus is all showin' out and spinning on his side and shit and sensitive about how you say his name. He's why I just decided to give everybody different handles, you know? 'Big Jupe' rolls like that, too. He knows everybody's always hatin' on him, bein' the biggest and all that."

So, what's next for the dejected former planet?

"I don't know, man," Pluto said, in a reflective timbre. "I hear the astrologers still say I can rule the Scorpio sign. I always thought the astrologers were kind of kooky and the Scorpio's were kind of downers, but I guess it's a good fit right now. Maybe me and some of the other dwarf dudes will start a fraternity or something. If they'll have me. I'm really a mess right now."

And, before fading into unconsciousness, he quoted a man he considered a similarly "lost soul:"

"What's that Mike Tyson said after Lennox Lewis kicked his ass in Memphis? What was it? Oh, yeah, he said, 'I might just fade into Bolovian ... I might just go to New York and feed my pigeons on the roof.' That's about how I feel right now, man. If I ever make it back to New York."

"Burp."