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The turd was suspended then, suspended like the Great Tuskanini, a high wire act that Ersk loved as a kid. But he was not thinking on the Great Tuskanini just then; he was focusing with tantric intensity on the ever delicate balance of the tear-shaped turd, on the exact level of tension in his buttocks, not too clenched, and yet, not relaxed either.
A substantial crowd began to gather at the street below, jockeying to get a look at what seemed like a disembodied ass.
"It's a metaphor," shouted the psychoanalyst from the street below, to which the crowd murmured in apparent agreement. "It's a metaphor for Freud's anal stage!"
A second analyst, interrupting a session with a patient on the third floor, peered out his window to consider the scene. "Ah, yes, Freud's anal stage. I am more familiar with the oral stage," he related gleefully, once again allowing his patient to fellate his most urgent need. "Don't worry," he comforted her, "The anal stage comes next."
A passing motorcyclist, taking note of the strained metaphor, attempted to relay its essential meaning: "The turd remains in limbo, because he has not yet developed what Freud terms anal-rententive or anal-explusive tendencies. Perhaps he should relax his sphincter, thereby embracing anal-expulsion. In metaphorical terms, it is a sign of freedom from metaphysical shackles." Stepping off his bike, he fell headlong over his bike and into an uncovered manhole.
"Holy shit!" the priest beside the manhole exclaimed.
"He's right, the shit falls from the heavens!" the janitor proclaimed, as up above, the turd quickly made its twisting decent. On hearing the janitor's words, the crowd panicked. "Run, run!" Ersk's father tried to shout from the street below, but by the second "run," the turd had landed squarely in his mouth.
Date Written: July 29, 2003
Author: Noah Simple
Average Vote: 5