Imagine a poster on the side of a building. One person looks at it and sees a red poster. The other, looking at the same poster, sees blue. How could they ever come together and agree on what color the poster actually is. Neither person is colorblind; they just have different names for the colors. It’s quite a problem.
I defecate flowers. I should say that I defecate what you consider to be flowers. I consider flowers poop. You see, I eat food like everyone else. My body digests the food. And then outcomes poop. Beautiful tulips, daffodils, and sometimes even roses. You know, poop.
I’m not stupid. I learned from a young age, that the kids called bowel movements “poop”. And I didn’t spend any time checking out the poop of my peers, so I just naturally assumed that the entire 4th grade class of St. Thomas Elementary were depositing lilacs into the toilets after lunch.
I heard the expression “everybody poops.” So I just assumed that everyone poops like me.
You’re probably assuming that if I thought that poop was flowers, that I must have called flowers, poop. That’s simply not the case. I knew that everyone called those flowers. And I just thought that “flowers” were the floral plants that are in the ground, and “poop” is a floral plant that comes after a big meal. Kind of how a sweater is a shirt, but we still call it a sweater.
In the 8th grade, Halloween night, a bunch of my friends put flaming bags of poop on some doorsteps. I got some weird looks when my paper bag had a sunflower sticking out of it, but I’ve come to reason that the kids just assumed I had decorated my poop bag.
But I wouldn’t live in the darkness forever. I was an invincible 16-year-old visiting my Uncle on the job. Whose job happened to be the Warden of the St. Thomas Penitentiary. He gave me the basic tour, and then I noticed the capital punishment wing. There was a lethal injection planned for that day, and my Uncle wanted no part of me seeing what happened. But, I was an arrogant fool and eventually he let me watch, presumably to teach me a lesson about who knows what is best for me.
I’ll spare you the details of the execution, and instead focus on one eye-opening post-mortem detail. The deceased defecated, leaving a stain on the table he was strapped to. That day I smelled something I had never smelled before. But the reality of poop didn’t instantly sink on. I just thought that once you died you didn’t poop flowers anymore, just soil.
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