Ms. Denum, in an extraordinary burst of worship, sings a song to Merdia. The Committee for Such Things recommends to the appropriately minded to pray this prayer at the right times, in the right ways.
37. Dear Merdia,
I have not loved Thee as I ought.
I have hoarded my steaming jewels, which are not truly mine, but Thine.
I have not been aesthetic in release, but sentimental, gushing, against all principles of adoration.
I have not sung while dumping, but been distracted; I have thought of mundane things and not concentrated on Your Glory.
I have been quick to perform Your Worship, in and out of Your Fine Temple, with only thoughts of lesser things, and those before me, after.
I have not seen my offering as the Highest Form of human love, but the lowest, shaming me before Your Throne. Even so, you have not denied me, Graceful Lady of the Void.
I have disdained the offerings of others, whether by sight, sound, smell or texture, sitting in judgment I am not qualified to have. Forgive me, dear Merdia. Thine is the beginning and the end, the splash and gurgle, hot hierarchies of heat.
May I rise to your perfection, Sweet Steaming Sibyl. May I give you my all, in earthy lumps of lower love.
Amen.
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
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.
