my biography

little has been said these long and secret years about the days and spaces of sadoo diaper – from whence farflung turds it arose, its innumerable flushings, the journeys of the scats, how it came to be numbered – if numbers are aspects of itself – among the sadoos, the incomprehensible ramblings of this blog itself, sadoo diaper’s relations with other sadoos and the non-sadoo community, its political positions, sexual preferences, and seminal influences, scholarly theories of its psychoaesthetics … all this has been left to the reader’s vivid or more likely mundane imagination.

no more.

fukky risotto, a hermaphrodite of little renown living happenstantially in the 13^th arrondissement, was not quite out of diapers when one cloudy day in february they felt a strange urging in the nether parts.

mommy, they say.

yes fukky dear, says mommy.

mommy, i have a strange feeling.

you have many strange feelings fukky.

this strange feeling is stranger cuz i’ve never had it before.

each feeling is new fukky, there’s never a feeling you’ve had before, that’s the beauty of feelings and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

don’t get philosophical on me mommy, not at a time like this.

oh fukky – always so dramatic.

mommy, it’s my diaper.

this is the fourth time today!

it’s not the caffeine, it’s something else.

have you been into the coconut water again?

it’s alive mommy.

what’s alive?

my turd.  it’s walking around in my diaper and saying things.

fukky, turds don’t talk.

maybe it’s not a turd.

but only turds come out of the asshole.  i mean – they’re the only things that come out that haven’t gone in first.

mommy you lie you lie.

of course i lie.

you said that all outputs are inputs and all inputs outputs, that the world is a great circle or sphere or hypersphere or something and that everything’s connected.

that’s true.  but that doesn’t discredit anything else i’ve said.  or rather it may discredit it but only in a way that credits.

… so whatever’s exploring my diaper now must have first gone in me … omigod i think it’s broken out …

… fucking jesus, i see a little hand print in your little trousers …

… get it out of me mommy, get it out …

… just pull down your pants and let’s see what happens …

fukky and their mommy were good to me, especially since they weren’t expecting a third mouth to feed and didn’t really have much money, being committed primarily to verbal play, speculative caprice, irrational fun, and composting the world’s evils by ignoring them.  fukky called me diaper and mommy called me doodoo and because i was a melancholic child she often called me sadoodoo.  when they enlisted me in school they gave my name as sadoodoo diaper, which got shortened to sadoo diaper, as these things do.

it wasn’t until much later that i realized there was a large class of sadoos – all of them crammed into india – and they misspelled their names.  being committed to retaining the proper spelling and origins of myself, i left – after much weeping and the promise of tweets and postcards – to go on a quest to find other true sadoos.  surely, i reasoned – and mommy if she taught me anything taught me reason – if i had been born into a diaper others must have been too.

the secular sadoo is the record of my quest, in a kind of code, that i know other sadoos with a little bit of work can decipher.  as to the fake sadoos and all those heaps of masses that aren’t even the fake ones, as fukky always says, who gives a fukky about them?