I was elbow deep in your dirty unmentionables yesterday when a familiar scent pulled me away and led me to your vanity-lit powder room. You, and whom I can only assume was your driver, had just left for your scheduled preggo-pap examination, and I was already undressed and clicking around your house in my favorite pair of your pumps when the funk hit me. It took a second to cut through the overwhelming pre-gyno vinegar smell, but I eventually found what my nose told me was there: a pebbly turd conglomerate, floating brown and unbroken for nearly eight inches. Cloistered holy men have not known the rapture that seized me then. I rushed to the third shelf of your European-style larder, where I know you keep a box of 1 gallon freezer bags, and returned to your gilded toilet to collect my prize. I paused, relishing my closeness to your commode and gently caressed the smooth mahogany seat with languid fingertips then delicate butterfly kisses. Warm humidity still wavered from the deep bowl, and I hovered my face over its sauna a long moment before carefully cradling the enormous poo from its watery environment, bagging it, and removing the air from the Ziplock with a deep-chested suction from my lips. Oh, Campbell! The day had started without promise, but as I crawled back out of your kitchen doggy door with a bag of your perfectly molded intestines swinging from my teeth, I couldn't help but feel as though my discovery was a show of divine approval.
I closely studied the thick brown rod the whole bus ride back to the YMCA, and when I arrived, I ceremoniously lowered the seven pork ribs, whose marrow you had slurped clean four months ago, to the second shelf of my refrigerator. The number one spot is now crowned with the newest jewel of my collection: a real Campbell Brown.
The happiest man alive,