Note: This column was written during my senior year at the University of Wisconsin-Superior, and published in the Promethean.
Paul Ryan, Columnist
Please. Stop. Please stop. I know my creamy white Buttocks are superb, but please stop discussing Them in public. They’re talked about in buses, trains and electric motored auto-mo-bile cars. They’re admired from afar, middle range, light strength binocular range, and even up close. If I should ever have to come to a sudden stop, many a people would find themselves getting a face full of my splendid Ass.
Yes, my subtle yet striking and delicious-looking Bottom is indeed a finely crafted machine. It gleams with a polished shine, almost smiling at you as you stare at It. Those of weaker mental strength often weep when in Its presence.
When I break wind with my finely-tuned instrument of perfection, It sounds like a small symphony orchestra is performing a favored piece for the son of a king. The odor released is not the reek of sulfur and oat bran excrement that your subpar posterior produces, it is more like the smell of crisp, virgin wildflowers sitting next to freshly-baked cornbread on an oak table cleansed fully with lemon pledge on a pleasant Sunday morning.
When I release flatulence, people beg me to produce yet again, so that they may capture it in a jar for later enjoyment.
Sometimes rosepetals will shoot from my magnificent farting Ass, with my sublime twin Moons rippling in unison. Women want a piece of It, and men want to be like It.
My goodness. These columns are becoming rather long and ridiculous, aren’t they?
My brilliant Extremity-Ass can sometimes blind children on sunny days. Those with heart conditions or in other areas of poor health who wish to see It should only do so by poking a hole in a piece of construction paper and watching Its shadow. Al Roker and George Kessler often use It to predict the weather.
I do not use dirty socks or rolled up balls of toilet paper to make Its shape more appealing, like you do with yours. My polite and courteous Arse’s thick candy-coated shell and firm but relaxing interior cushioning provides the comfort and protection one would normally only expect from the seat of a limousine, or the middle of a finely fluffed pillow.
Sweet mother of crap, just how long is this blasted thing?!? How long is a novella? Is it officially a novella yet? Hmmm…a novella about my ass. A novella about my magnificent, sparkling and superiorly intelligent ass. I like it. You haven’t seen it done before, have you? If someone else has an “ass novella”, I certainly don’t want to bother with it. Oh well, no matter.
If you were to ever serve drinks off my wonderful Laderiere (Note to self: learn how to spell “laderiere”), your mother would surely insist that you use coasters.
So you see, my Butt is indeed a thing to be marveled at. Not like your ridiculous tail, which is lopsided and filled with dingleberries. How could you dare to compare? My Ass could surely kick your ass’ ass. Your discolored, unnaturally sagging colon cushion is outdated and unwanted, much like wooden eating utensils and rotary telephones. Mine wouldn’t even be a regular utensil; It is the “spork” of the modern world.
For shame, doubters of my arse! Shame…on…you…all!