Love is not a rose. Love is not a teddy bear. Love is not a chocolate. Love is not a pack of cigarettes or your next drink. Love is not a poem. Love is not a song.

Love is a diaper full of shit, overflowing with ungodly rank-smelling dookie with an innocent sonuvamofo looking up at you as you go towards the scent. And when you look right at this ball of life and can just make out what it was that you fed him a few hours back as you pull off his plastic underwear and behold a poop big enough to make a grown man proud, and all you can think to yourself is, "That's ma boy," then you get that special feeling. You know that tingle? That's love.

Don't be fooled by the variety they sell in WalMart. Like everything else there, it's cheap plastic junk. It falls apart in water. Someone was paid pennies to make it.

Don't be fooled by the kind you see on TV. All they did was take the best 22 minutes out of a day and cut the rest out. Plus they gave it a boobjob, a tummy tuck, 2 hours in the makeup chair, and the best lighting money can buy.

And don't be fooled by the kind in religion either. That's elitism. I'm talking about acceptance. There's no manual to guide you in this kind of love.

We should all be so lucky as to experience this kind of love in our lives. Indeed, what the world needs now is poop. Sweet poop. It's the only thing that there's just too little of. Feces, doodie, dookie, poo. Shit.

I asked my mom not to read these pages, but will she listen? No. I think now I might see why. It's the shit-bonding we did many-a-year ago. I warned her she would be offended, but is she going to listen? Probably not.

Becuase my mom is shit. Welcome back to my site, y'all.

Apparently, "God-knows-how-long" is roughly equivalent to twenty-three days. Tomorrow, I will propose a sound alternative to the Ten Commandments that requires no religion at all. Morality can be taught in school again. It will be groundbreaking. No one will comment. You're all shit. And very special to me.