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 13th 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?
