Of Merdia 38

Cloan Denum gets around.

38.        Surely one of the most superlative joys of cosmopolitan travel is the cross-cultural mingling of the diverse jewels of our souls.  This is why I make it a requirement, when I travel and am blessed to inhabit our days’ great shared transience commonly called the hotel, to stay in guest rooms that lack their own privy, forcing me—although, as you, dearly beloved reader, might know, at least the intelligent and beautiful among you, the verb force might misrepresent the truth—to share the Noble Seat with other bifurcated charms.  I know—the knowledge even now generates vast shudders—that Our Lady’s shrine has been kissed by anxious asses, so willing to please, so fearful of an inability to perform, so ripe with blossoms of Merdia’s precious fruit; not only this, but these hot cracks of egress have originated from every nation, every great metropolis, are connected through immeasurable hidden passages to tongues that are bespoken in every language; every race, belief, color, complexion, texture, have worshipped here.  What wonder! What communion!

This latria exceeds excess when I enter and, there, greeting me so joyously, is a remnant turd, perhaps undigested due to technological complexities inherent in the Flushing System; perhaps, more mystically, left there for me, just for me.  My imagination accelerates.  Is it Romanian?  From New South Wales?  Did it speak, when encapsulated within a human form, a smattering of Gaelic?  Broken Portuguese?  Did it once belong to someone who had failed at football?

Ah, no matter.

Here, the festive fecalities of the swirling world swirl and sing.  Here, they glow and participate in the one and true great discourse.  Great duodenums of our day—this the converse of our true being.  This the reason for our travel.  This global communication and delight.