I Wipe My Ass On Your Novel [Oct 12, 2002]

An alert reader has sent me this story off the newswires. In case the link doesn't work, let me just say that you can now read German novels on toilet paper in public restrooms in Germany. It appears that the Germans have fulfilled my prophecy. I think I could go through Gunter Grass' The Flounder in about a month.

What do I mean by prophecy, you ask? Well, now I post my famous poem, which I wrote two years ago. It's available here for the first time ever in print. Next year it will become a rock song, but for now, enjoy it as verse. Cut, paste, and make it a phenomenon.

I WIPE MY ASS ON YOUR NOVEL

By Neal Pollack

Listen.

Can you hear it?

It is the sound

Of me

Wiping my ass

On your novel.

Feel.

Can you feel it?

It is the feel

Of me

Pressing your novel

Against my heaving ass.

Look.

Can you see it?

It is the sight

Of your super-absorbent novel

Clearing my grateful ass

Of the shit

Of your words.

American literature is a bloated turd!

A dietary disruption

In the colon of the world.

It cannot be swallowed or digested.

It does not nourish

It contains no vitamins

It is a restaurant

At a rest-stop

On a highway to oblivion.

It is in my ass,

And when I shit it out

Your novel

Is my scented salvation.

Thank you, DeLillo,

You wrote a long novel.

Thank you, Joyce Carol,

For a year’s worth of three-ply.

Thank you, history,

For historical novels

And a lifetime

Of wiping

My ass.

Smell.

Can you smell it?

It is the smell

Of my shit

On the spine

Of your novel.

Taste.

Can you taste it?

It is the taste

Of my shit

That tastes better

Than your novel.

You cannot moan

You cannot grovel

You cannot clear it

With a shovel.

My friends, I hate to

Burst your bubble.

Where is that Updike?

Here comes a double!

Sontag

Roth

Mailer

And Havel

I wipe my ass

Upon your novel!