Colanderboy, writing here, discusses the vagaries of contemplating his nutsack.

Me, I wouldn’t contemplate Elisson’s nutsack on a bet, but I have long felt that people who deliberately partake of yoga voluntarily should seek professional help. It’s ok for people in Gitmo to have the soles of their feet pointing at right angles to the space time continuum, but homey don’t play that. Besides, there would never be a time during which I’d be able to commit these crimes against posture and not either a: spray shit on someone, or fart badly enough to make them wish I had.

If there were a philosophy to which I would attribute my emissions, the solid and liquid and gaseous, it would be Tao.

For, like Tao, Poo is undifferentiated. It has no definite shape or size, or form, or smell, except that which our recta impart to it, and even that is but temporary.

Like Tao, poo returns. As long as you eat, you will poo.

Like Tao, Poo is subtle and quiet- but the strongest will shy away from it.

Like Tao, poo is dispassionate, and nursing. It cares not who leaves it, and the nutrition it carries causes everything to grow.

Like Tao, poo is not transcendant but is deeply metaphysical. Everything, so to speak, is poo, and poo is everything.

So I leave you with the famous painting of the Three Sniffers: Three men come to a latrine, and smell the fumes emanating therefrom. The first, Confucious, twisted his face in a gruesome display of disgust, and said “I cannot imagine but this unfortunate soul has been poisoned by processed foods, he must return to a simple diet of rice and fish head soup to regain his digestive health” The second man, Buddha, smelled and also twisted his face in pain. “This man will suffer greatly, as I suffer, but he will transcend this life to be where there is no poo” The third, lau Tse, inhaled deeply and smiled, thinking “how lovely will be my banana tree!”