Ahh. The noble turd. Unloved. Overlooked. Shunted aside like so much shit. The turd is ever a stalwart companion in our vulgar lexicon. Not so robust as shit, not so juvenile as poop. Not as scholarly as feces or fecund as excrement. It is, simply, turd. But the turd is mighty and truly a versatile as any of those words. Maybe even moreso for truly turd rises to occasions of verbal exclamation that few words could ever dream hope to aspire. And for your turd edification, I present to you – the versatility of turd.
Polishing a Turd
Octavius Maximus was a Roman artisan of some small renown known for his skill in crafting the likeness of animals out of various substances from marble to wood and even fruit. It is known that, at the behest of a wealthy benefactor, Octavius was requested to create a whole menagerie of beasts, each in their own medium. There was a wooden lion, a bronze ape, a marble stag and many others. But his final piece, a narwhal carved from a turd, proved to be his undoing as polishing the narwhal proved impossible. By the time he was finished he had nothing but a turd-covered polishing cloth and a price on his head for fraud. This is the origin of the belief that one cannot polish a turd.
As we know, the heinous vocation of the burglar is to abscond with that which is not his. One burgles things for personal gain to the detriment of the burgled victim. But what manner of person engages in the burglement of turds? For whom would a burgled turd be a boon? The turd burglar, that’s who. A turd burglar does not want you to enjoy you turd. So when you find yourself alone and relaxed in a bathroom at work or school and are able to let loose the dogs of war, just as the counter approaches zero the turd burglar squeaks the rusty hinges of the door and enters, shattering your calm and destroying your meditative turd state. Your pristine turd is burgled.
Growing in popularity in recent years as a delicious holiday feast, the turducken is likely the most appealing of all turds as it seems to be the only one people eat.
Alter ego of Burt Reynolds and ace Jeopardy contestant.
Turd in a Punch Bowl
According to the 1877 Treaty of Lisbon, everyone loves punch. It’s delicious. If juice is like sex with a tired shift supervisor from Burger King at 7 am on a Monday, punch is like being debauched by a high class hooker just after 9PM Friday night. Everything you can think of becomes slightly better if punch is included. Except a turd. Because a turd in the punch bowl is the only thing that downgrades punch. It’s like finding all those sores on the high class hooker after you finish, because the lights were too low to notice before, and you already paid and you’re not even sure you can ask for a refund, or at least a partial refund, after you’ve come this far.
Yes, a turd in a punch bowl can be anything that ruins an otherwise pleasant engagement, be it an actual turd or just a metaphorical one like Donald Trump. Would you drink Trump punch? Of course not.
Both a flower that grows out of a cow pie and Karl Rove, turd blossom is meant to indicate something beautiful from something foul and/or that former President Bush wanted to make sweet, desert love to Karl Rove.
Immortalized in song by Peter Gabriel’s deeply moving line “I wanna be…your Turd Hammer” this expression dates back to shortly after the invention of hammers when it became clear that turds were remarkably not useful when it comes to hammering anything. Thus, to call something a turd hammer, is to point out how ineffective it is. No idea what Peter Gabriel meant.