39. Dead orators have given words to democracy’s nobility. As have a mayhem of thinkers, a motley of confused poets. Tomes of praise have been erected to its necessity and worth. Olympian pools of blood have been filled to achieve it. But I say to you a smaller pool achieves the same ends with much less effort.
Fellow citizens of Merdia’s kind kingdom, ideals aren’t actualized in words, philosophies, blood, books or bile, but only in the bowl of perfect excrement, in which we are all accepted, we all are made one. The bowl of grace and unity, the golden bowl of proffered love. We do not need to wait for an impossible time; rather, it is here with us, glorious, now. We have entered the kingdom of Heaven
40. Consistency is a constant concern of any of Merdia’s children worthy of their ancestry. Consistency of timing (who does not want her offerings to be regular and full?); consistency of texture (neither obstinate or stony or too similar to that other lesser yellow stream); consistency of spirit (given freely, in the sweet knowledge of donation). These three consistencies: these our desired attitude and product. Merdia, be near; ah, fruity Merdia, be near.
41. What peace our goddess gives us. I think particularly of the moment upon entering her temple, when the preponderance of electronic and communicative noise ceases and I am left alone with Her pure natural sounds. This peace is an increasingly rare gift: music is pumped into almost every public space, indeed, even invading our homes; talk occurs everywhere in hallways and offices, bedrooms and boardrooms. But. No speakers yet in Merdia’s graceful domain. No discourse there but the chocolate dumps of dreamy derrieres, the Dasein of our charm and timber.
42. A commonplace among Merdians is that their goddess is ascendant during waking hours, but sleeps alongside our sleeping. I have found this not to be true. Not only am I occasionally blessed with a serendipitous pearl when night raises high and I cruise that other land, a surprise pearl that imitates the dawn, not only do I have the knowledge that such occurrences can only increase as I advance in years and wisdom, but I often find that Merdia joins me in the shadow kingdom. I dream of course, like others, of impossible copulations and labyrinths made of cheese. I dream of the War of Ants and Sunflowers, of cabals of microscopic dogs. Of demonic three-headed nuns and girly presidents. But not just this. When night's buttocks hang low and the sewers of Hell back up to meet them, I see headless scats on headless beasts with merde for eyes, merde-eyes floating in place of heads. Scat rivers overflow and drink our cities dry. I am a scat on the pinnacle of ruin, composing commandments for a legion of Spanish rats. Diappo scats are served. Scat lattes, shakes. Scat cordon bleu. Napoleon Scataparte approaches; we converse easily in Scatese. He displays a scatograph to scry the scatastrophes of man. I reveal a door in my buttocks. It opens, we descend. A surging liquid sea of chunky scats rages to the tune of Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, and in the middle my mother sunbathes naked on a float. "Mudder, Mōdor," I cry. But the sea consumes me and I wake. I know then that Morpheus and Merdia are lovers.
