Poop.

I lost my poop bracelet.

Allow me to explain.

Many months ago,
two girls came to me
in Ames, IA, and offered
me their bracelets.

They were both made of colorful
beads strung on a stretchy cord,
with one word spelled out.

The first said, "poop"
the second said, "slut".

I thanked them,
because I love bracelets of any kind,
and I put them both on.

But then, my wrist said, "poop slut",
and that just made me feel weird.

So I gave "slut" to Kristen,
but she misplaced it,
and I was left with "poop",
much to the chagrin of
the original slut.

I loved that bracelet,
I wore it every day.

I wore it this past Saturday,
when we played at the Napolean
Skydiving Center in Michigan.

I keep telling you,
it's the best fucking concert of the year,
and the most awesome party.

I lost "poop" when a flaming
roll of toilet paper soaked
in jet fuel hit me on the arm.

I'm serious.

We were playing soccer
with 20+ rolls of flaming
toilet paper soaked in jet fuel.

I'm serious.

I told you it was an awesome party.

You see, jet fuel burns at a surprisingly
low temperature, so you can pick
up the rolls of toilet paper with your hand,
and kick them.

You must maintain constant vigilance,
because twenty other drunk fools
are kicking flaming rolls of toilet paper also.

One moment, I was happy with my "poop",
the next moment, the drummer from the Ghettobillies
was telling me my shirt was on fire.

I stopped,
I dropped,
and I rolled.

No burns,
but the heat was just
enough to melt the delicate
plastic stretchy cord that
held "poop" together.

Now, my wrist is bare,
and I am actively seeking
a new bracelet.

Poop.

-p