By Five-Inch Taint
This morning I did something that helped me relate much more
to how Daniel Romano must have been feeling when he finished recording his
latest album, Finally Free. I woke up
and got ready for my typical morning constitutional. However, today was
slightly different. Instead of going straight into the bathroom, I went into my
office where I had a large brown bag filled with very specialized tools. Full
of confidence, I pulled out a hat. Now, this is not your typical cap or a hat
that a magician would pull a rabbit out of. No, the contents within were not
any that a magician would want to extract. This hat is to be placed on a toilet
seat and you are expected to fill it with your shit. So, I obliged. I duly
placed down the hat in the proper location and proceeded to decimate it with a
shit that contained the over 50 grams of fiber I had consumed the day before.
As I contemplate why my life has come to this point, I reach
into the brown goodie bag to pick out the rest of its contents: two wooden
sticks (not dissimilar to the old wooden tongue depressors), four pink latex
gloves, and a vial that was destined to be the vessel of my shit. I wondered if
the factory owners who oversaw the production of this piece of plastic ever considered
what would be contained within their product?
After finishing my business, I slap on the gloves, pick up
the sticks, and begin to shovel my excrement into this vile vial. After washing
my hands, putting on some pants, I dutifully place my doodie container in a
plastic bag to conceal its contents. Normally, I have very little shame. Most
of my reviews on this website are about shit. However, as I headed off to the
hospital to deposit my poop to some unsuspecting nurse, I began to feel this
tremendous sense of embarrassment. No person should ever have to hand personal butt
brownies to another living being. I ask: What am I doing with my life? How
could something that I produced that is never intended to be seen in the
general public now be on display for all the world to see? I felt shame and
embarrassment.
As I approached the hospital, I started to think more about
the person receiving my contained crap. What poor, unsuspecting fool will I be
releasing my release on? Before I knew it, I approached the desk, handed the
receptionist the test orders, my identification, and my insurance information.
Great, I realize, now this is not just some anonymous dung—it has a name. That
name is “Five-Inch Taint.” Awash with a wave of self-consciousness, and much to
my chagrin, I hand it over and announce: I am Five-Inch Taint, and this is
shit. The entire buildup of this morning, but this last moment in particular,
is how I imagine Daniel Romano must have felt when he recorded his latest album
Finally Free. I cannot begin to tell
you how awful this album is.
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