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The Turd Peddler

from The Reeducation of a Turd Peddler
by John Henry Peabody

I AM A TURD peddler. It’s true.
  I collect, diagram, catalog and store old turds—dried up, dusty, fossilized and mostly rock hard. People like me are the public defenders of history’s scat. Somebody’s got to do it. And a lot of people do do it. (I so wanted to say do do right there).
  Next year, I’m supposed to host a conference at the historical society for the ICA (International Coprolite Association). I’ve got turd peddlers coming from all over the world to give papers, talk turd and maybe do a little trading. Yeah, trading. Technically, we’re not supposed to traffic turds—they’re archaeological artifacts—but connoisseurs like myself can’t pass up the offer to get a Paleolithic Siberian Kongsgardner in exchange for two Central Coast Chumash twelve cent pieces (from the Early-Middle period, that is). If it were baseball cards, that would be one Sandy Koufax for two Don Drysdales.
  Everybody’s has got to be into something. That's what we’re into.

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