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Ibs
There's a picture the colon wishes to paint of immaculate conception, a priceless amber heirloom that has scraped the snakey organs inside, minced meals of days past, fibers from cushions that appeared far more delectable than they ultimately became, and it polishes this trophy in a reliable, predictable manner to present this gewgaw in a perfect departure from the best and most interesting hole in the body to so many.
And then there's these other times for other bipedals in which there are so MANY different kinds of presentations that the colon makes, rearranging all those nutrients into vile spigots of anxiety and misplaced malice against the other parts that aren't participatory in its craft, a sickening graft of talent for all the other organisms that inhabit the body.
Getting to shit all the time can also be the best excuse for being alive.
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