It had been a monumentally disastrous day for Fred Jones. He had
locked his keys in his car at the gas station, which had made him
late for work. His boss had refused to discuss the new marketing
ideas Fred has spent three months formulating. And now, on the way
home, he was entombed in the midst of the worst traffic jam in recent
memory. Traffic had ground to a halt within minutes of his entering
the freeway and his air-conditioner, always on the brink of
disfunction, was blowing hot air into the interior of his already
steaming car. The only thing that kept Fred from losing control of
his legendary temper was Judy's promise that morning. He smiled as he
recalled his wife's cheering answer to his customary query regarding
the evening meal.
"We're have shit tonight dear," she had said with a wink.
Now, sitting in this infernal morass of stationary vehicles, Fred
choked back his impatience and took a deep breath. He wondered what
form tonight's shit would take. Turd pancakes? Shit loaf? Or his
favorite, Diarreah stew? Fred let thoughts of steaming bowls of
rancid, runny shit flow through his mind, chasing the frustrations of
his day out the window and into the haze. An irate motorist honked
his horn behind Fred, shaking him out of his reverie. Good. The
traffic was finally moving. "Fifteen minutes and I'll be home," Fred
said to himself. "And then a delicious shit dinner. That'll make me
feel better."
"Hello dear."
Judy was waiting for him at the door. Fred immediately noticed the
brown streak of semi-dry shit running down the corners of her mouth
and knew that his dinner wish had come true. He winked at Judy,
leaned forward and kissed her cheek, avoiding the shit, not wanting
to jump the gun and spoil that first delicious taste.
"Mmmmm. Darling, you're the greatest. Diarreah stew is my favorite."
"I know, honey. And as an extra surprise, I put some of Brewster's
shit in it too."
Brewster was the family's Dachshund, whose excrement was particularly
virulent and usually laden with parasitic worms. It was an unusual
treat and Fred wondered if it was a special occasion or anniversary
he'd forgotten about. Eating dogshit was usually reserved for
holidays or very special guests.
"You run upstairs and clean up and I'll get supper ready, honey."
"You bet," Fred said as he sprinted up the stairs. Half way up he met
his 18-year-old son Bill. "Yo, Dad! Shit for dinner," he yelled as he
ran past. "Yeah, I know. Mmmmmmmmm," Fred replied.
Fifteen minutes later the entire Jones family was seated around the
antique dining table, and each member had his or her eyes glued to
the large porcelain bowl sitting in the center of the table. Fred,
wore his customary tattered robe. Judy was dressed formally, as
always. Bill wore cut-offs and t-shirt. And 6-year-old Samuel wore
his new Superman pajamas.
"Mmmmm, I can't wait," said Bill
"Now Bill." Judy gave him that stern motherly look she often
employed, a mixture of warmth, love and discipline. "You know we say
grace before we eat. Fred?"
Fred immediately bowed his head and clasped his hands together. The
rest of the family followed suit as Fred prayed.
"Dear Lord, we thank you for this meal. We thank you for great
heaping bowls of corn-encrusted turds. We thank you for the shit that
emerges from our beloved dog, Brewster. And most of all we thank you
for gallons and gallons of runny, odorous, rank and rancid diarreah.
Amen."
No sooner was the prayer completed than Samuel grabbed for the bowl
of loose stools. "Not so fast," said Fred as he whipped out a
38-Special, snub-nosed revolver he'd purchased for just such
eventualities. "Eat lead, you little bastard!" Fred pulled the
trigger and the back of Samuel's head exploded in a red ruin,
splattering the dining room wall with blood and bits of skull bone.
"Now dear," said Judy. "You're being a little too strict with Samuel
again."
"Well, I had a terrible day at work and I guess I'm a bit short
today. But, no use crying over spilt milk. Let's just cut the little
bugger open and see if there's any shit in those little intestines.
Yum!"
Fred leaned over the corpse and, with his trusty Swiss Army Knife,
professionally gutted Samuel, revealing at least six pounds of
delicious looking, slightly greenish turds. "Looks like Samuel's been
into the Snickers bars," said Fred, pulling a few peanuts out of the
steaming colonic treasure. He stood up, shit dripping from his
fingers and splatted a pound or so onto Judy's and Bill's plates,
saving the lion's share for himself.
"Pig," said Judy.
"Harrrumph," said Fred. "Now, pass the diarreah please, I'm
starving!"
Judy handed the large container to Fred who slowly, teasingly removed
the lid. Eyes closed, he let the stench waft over his nostrils,
arousing his olfactoral senses and bringing a flood of shit-eating
memories from his childhood. Too impatient to bother with flatware,
Fred plunged his entire face directly into the bowl of human and
canine excrement, swallowing draught after draught of the putrid
splooge.
"Hey Dad, save some for us," whined Bill, a look of impatient desire
chiseled on his adolescent face. "We're hungry too."
"Oh. Sorry son. Here ya go." Fred politely passed the bowl of shit
over to his eldest son and proceded to dig into Samuel's turds with
a gusto he'd been relishing all day long. Soon the three remaining
Joneses were fully sated with the horrific smelling contents of
their's and their dog's bowels.
"That was simply delicious," said Fred. "What's for dessert?"
"Apple pie," said Judy, with a smile.
"Perfect," said Fred and Bill in unison. "God bless us every one."
The End
Original file name: Love is in the Air
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