Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Piece On Shit

Donald Trump is not a piece of shit. Shit can be useful.

Put it in a barrel, throw your banana peels and egg shells and coffee grounds on top. Cardboard and paper works, too, because cardboard and paper are just mutilated trees. Cover up the barrel, stir it once in a while. In no time at all, you’ll have mulch. This can be used to grow nutritious fruits and vegetables, or beautiful flowers, or icky that is so sticky.

It’s fuel, too, shit. When the settlers crossed the Great Plains, they found no wood for their fires. All the tall grass had been burned by the Paiute; that was how they hunted the buffalo. As the sun got low, and the wagons pulled up for the night, one of the children would be given the task of collecting dung from the oxen. Apply flint, steel: fire. From shit came warmth and light and protection. Coffee could be percolated; bacon fried.

Until fairly recently, if you were wearing leather, you were wearing shit. Piss, too. If you just flay an animal, the skin–now bereft of circulating blood–will rot away quickly. The hide needs to be dried, and then tanned. Tanning used to require shit, or at least a certain bacteria found within the shit that our dummy ancestors were unable to synthesize. (It will not surprise you that the tanneries were always located on the outskirts of the city, far away from where the rich folks lived.) No shit, no leather.

Donald Trump is not a piece of shit. Shit can be useful.

He is a cancer.


  1. “The criminal conspiracy that has taken control of the white house.”
    You know the predictive text game? The one where you type a word on your phone and then pick the middle choice three times or whatever? That’s what I get when I type “the”

  2. Cancer can be useful.
    If Trump died from Cancer it would be extremely useful.

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