A polished turd
Glossed on March 30, 2025.
I was browsing /x/ one night when outside my darkened window I saw a shining, golden turd. This wasn’t just any turd, now—it was polished to a high gloss. Rainbows were shooting out its ass and angels were singing and praising its holiness.
I decided I would have to have this turd, and—doors be damned!—clambered directly out the window to fetch it. But, blocking my path, there were weasels everywhere! Not bears, mind you—but weasels! Their eyes glowed, their beaks glistened, and their noses dripped. I thought I was in some sort of weird anthro/fur porn at first, but then I realized—this is already the second paragraph of this mind-battering story, so I should shut up!
But I refused to shut up. I carried on carrying on. I wanted to have more spingly-bongles in my name than Cecilia Bååth-Holmberg, or even a squiggly-doodle like Elizabeth Peña had, and this seemed like the way to do it. But no one was amused. Not even the Muses were amused.
Then I got carried away. I got carried away carrying on, that is. Then I got carried off—by weasels. (And they were big weasels, too.)
“Mlaaaw! mlaaaw!!” went the weasels. Then the stoats. Then even the minks! I wasn’t sure how this happened. All I wanted was a finely polished turd. But now I was being furried to death.
Indeed, it was another fifth Sunday that was upon us. Then the day ended and yet another began.