Albo P Fossa—January 25, 2023
The Roaring Twenties.
Don’t mean shit to lots of folks. To others it holds a shitpot full of meaning: the seat of relief. At the parting of ways, things of great and small meaning come to rest. Then it all becomes clear.
February 27 commemorates the death—not birth—of the man who claimed to invent the flush toilet. His claim was crap. He owned the first showroom when no one spoke of such things. But indoor flushers go back as far as four and a half centuries. The can: live with it, not without it.
So Thomas gained guilt by association. A “crapper” is the place to take a seat. A “crap” is what to leave. To “not give a crap” may be a sign of hunger.
But wait: there’s still more. Turn almanac pages back to the sixth century. Then from its start it grew like flies: toilet paper. As time rolled by, not all folks had proper crappers. Behind half moon doors they let rip Sears Catalog sheafs. A pain in the ass. But porcelain thrones would come for all.
In 1897 John Gayetty’s toilet paper said, “Hello World!” No crapper should be without it. Times of imagined shortage yielded panic buying and true shortage. Take 2020, for example. Or don’t.
Crappers and their softer brethren remove the offal of modern society.
Have a happy flapper on your crapper. You may think of all the asses before and yet to come. Bid a turd 23 skidoo. Grab from the top down, bottom up, left or right, and rip. Feed your crapper well. And flush.
Repeat as needed.
Don’t leave the seat up. And don’t leave a paper trail stuck to your heel.