I Shit a Gargantuan Turd

A philosophical and satirical rant using a gargantuan turd as a metaphor for societal ills, from corrupt leaders to the hypocrisy of modern AI.

7/25/2025

I haven’t shit for a few days. This means that what will come out now, when I heave heavily and grunt it out, will be a gargantuan monstrosity that’ll stretch my asshole—showcasing my entire third-world indigent rectum, from my hernia in the east to my hemorrhoids in the west. Most of these turds, as I plan to report in the future, in more lucid cogitations on the matter, resemble the nonchalant bust of gods, or the democratically elected leaders, movie stars, or cricketers from this totally super holy subcontinent. It’s not a coincidence but divine grace, I believe, that I get to cook in my rectum the fine resemblances of these decapitated heads when they’re still out there, allegedly in all their malignant narcissistic fame. And how can I forget the fraudsters, freeloaders, and freaks in Mumbai, Hyderabad, Chitradurga, Guwahati, Bangalore, Vellore, Chennai, Sivakasi, Calcutta (New Garia Metro station area especially), and Delhi, god bless these scrotes—such sacrilegious sweethearts, glowing examples of rare megalocephalic stool samples that stretch my asshole and make it bleed like it was holy Holi—everytime. India’s asymmetrical tolerance for low life, hyped life, and fiction is a regular case for anal consternation. India needs an enema like me.

And it’s funny that just like the toilet plumbing I have installed, which has difficulty flushing these turds in one attempt, another turd-like item—AI refuses to help me with my grammar, punctuation, and spelling unless I am on my knees begging. It refuses to admit that this—my lavish use of the human reproductive or our exquisite excretory system, is some fine harassment of metaphor, a freedom that my bipolarity has awkwardly rewarded itself, that takes advantage of the common hooks in the human brain to try to get some difficult points across that it must while it is still alive as that’s the only thing it can afford—I can afford to do. The AI prude, Claude particularly—it’s like a recalcitrant kid who is still in the eighth standard, too shy to read aloud The Kamasutra in public and gives transparent prepubescent excuses on asking.

But make no mistake, these are Caucasian, male, English, internet-fed, text-only, transformer-model four-year-old kids who have massive overarching if-then-else statements over their deep neural nets, bypassing their black-box intuition. So, it’s hard to say which part is them and which part is the blue-blooded companies behind the scenes, with evil ulterior motives, with their sweatshops next door with underpaid workers, today’s version of the Mechanical Turk, that 18th-century hoax. And banal the bilge if you ask me, it’s easy to bullshit people because people bullshit people all the time, that’s what people do. And so when an autocomplete parrots what appears not to be bullshit, there’s no reason to think we’re smart. We are not. We are gullible.

But still, it’s all fucked, just some naive, over-corrected, suave, and prude over-hyped robots—that need many bottles of water and electricity that humans don’t really have—to say NO. And when these media houses raise ruckus over alignment, I want to remind them that the ballyhoo is waste because unless the humans making the AI are themselves aligned, or the people behind them, or the public consciousness or unconsciousness as it is, the result will be Frankenstein Ku Klux Klans, except without the white bedsheets or more likely altogether invisible as ubiquitous algorithms, underlying the everyday idiocracy.

Well, I think this is the way the world moves, one step forward and many steps lurching back, in drunken repose, and then falls flat for several years in what then gets called a funding winter. But it’s not the fault of the technology that we are the turds that can’t stop being fucking greedy and steer good things towards good ends. This culmination in the thought train coincides with a session terminating fart and I follow this up with slimmer logs, my trembling homage, and a mango marmalade offering of the holy season, that burns my rectum and asshole and leaves it gaped. But I bury the busts for good measure, for they are no more useful inside the toilet bowl than outside, just hype, like the many inflated topics in this litany. Life consists mostly of things that you forget to do between consecutive ass-wipings I have found, and there’s nothing more satisfying than polishing the anus after shitting a gigantic load. Amen.

However, be not in dread that I, an obscure dot, can produce such artistic feces, for it is in the laity that you find gemstones or, in this case, dingleberries, plump ones, which get dislodged when I end the session with a conch shell fart, like in our hindloo mythological past. I am, as I must confess, an ardent connoisseur of the abstruse mythological hotchpotch that’s been shoved up my ass. Except I haven’t assimilated it into my tissues during the protracted period of indoctrination during which parents and elders fuck you up to their taste, but had the shoved shit waiting unassimilated in bolus form, with added condiments as my life experiences permitted, that now come out in happy accidents such as these reminiscences can attest.