Running With Scissors

I was reading about turds while eating my lunch.

And maybe for the first time in my life, I was actually a little grossed out --- but not enough to make me stop eating. Fortunately, nothing grosses me out to make me stop eating.

I bet if you cut me open, you'd discover my stomach lined with steel. Or maybe it's because I routinely eat gross things.

Chicken feet, anyone? Cow brains? Blood pudding?

I'd totally kick ass in Fear Factor.

So, anyway, I'm reading "Running With Scissors", a memoir by Augusten Burroughs, who probably isn't anybody famous or important or who's done anything of substance in this world except to prove that there is at least one person out there in North America who had a shittier childhood.

I mean, the guy's whacked-out, psychotic lesbian mother gave him away to her equally whacked-out, psychotic shrink to raise. And from what the guy wrote, it was apparently a shithole of grand proportions. We're talking about landfill-type grossness.

Anyways, the shrink, at one point, decides that God is speaking to him through his shit.

One of his turds was pointing up out of the toilet water and the shrink took this to mean that things were pointing up in their life. This wasn't the gross part, though.

The gross part was when he asked his daughter to get a spatula to scoop out the turd so they could dry it out on the picnic table in the backyard --- for what purpose is completely beyond me.