The Opiate, Fall Vol. 15
Flushing Bullshit Peter Crowley
I
f you’ve ever heard of the phrase “turnaround,” then you’d understand that the thickness of yarn reflects the temerity of intestines: how much guts do you have? Guts is the area of the stomach, deluged with microbial wands, that break down food from its already post-masticatory state. It is where the bullshit that gets past the mouth, teeth and tongue is further tattered to shreds, allowing the food’s individual components to become visible. And what do these individual components do? Typically, they go to the organs and bones through intercellular transport, fueling one for the rest of the day. And the same thing recurs in a vat of timelessness. However, if—and this is a big if—one allows the retina to follow its natural inclination to track post-mastication food down the esophagus and onto the gastrointestinal system, with flashlight in tow, then one can see
26.
how the guts break down food. Then, before automatically sending proteins and vitamins to organs and bones, the bullshit is placed in a boxcar that rides both to the anus and genitals, where it is released. When bullshit is pissed or shat, the results are breathtaking. Picture an Amalfi Coast morning, comfortable temperature, feet in the pearly blue Mediterranean, high mountain peaks above and Salerno in the distance. It is really that good. It is then just you and the ocean, not the bullshit stress of a scurrying worker running eagerly to a boss, not worries of the weatherman’s wolffanged snowstorm, not the paranoia that a terrorist will blow you up, not worn down by political media telling you to run this way and that, suggesting you think in the framework they dictate. No, it is just you and the sea riding a boat to
