Well… y’know how it is.
Sometimes, y’know, a guy goes to the can, and, well, y’know, there won’t be a newspaper handy, or the latest Sports Illustrated, or whatever, and, naturally, this will occur when a lengthy sit-down is required… and… well, the process of excretion, in and of itself, is boring.
Sometimes, we just deal with it, y’know? Accelerate the process as best we can, and move on. But sometimes, for one reason or another, this just won’t be feasible. Perhaps the excreta in question is a long one, or just bashful. Perhaps we are in the can at work, and in no particular hurry to return to the chain gang. Perhaps we simply don’t have anything better to do at that particular red-hot minute.
This is when the mind wanders, and the imagination comes into play. The mind is a monkey, you know. In more ways than one.
Ever see a video called Puppetry Of The Penis: Genital Origami? No, seriously. Run a Google search if you don’t believe me; I’m pretty sure Amazon carries it. Women, of course, know nothing of this sort of thing, lacking any kind of exterior equipment to play with in moments of boredom… but the boys know. The boys understand. Suffice it to say that male genitalia at rest are remarkably stretchy and resilient, and can be manipulated in endlessly creative ways. It’s like having your own built-in can of Play-Doh for those dull moments life occasionally serves up, you know?
However, the more fastidious among us generally balk at making the Cheeseburger, the Triple Elephant, or the Apollo Thirteen while actually sitting on the can. I mean, come on, we’re talking a sanitation thing, here. In the shower is one thing, but parked on the can?
This does not, however, necessarily limit the creative opportunities for amusing oneself on the commode. There is always the excretion process itself, and the endless variations therein.
And no, I can’t say I’ve ever felt any urge to handle the stuff. At least, not personally. I understand there are any number of artists out there these days, people whose art forms would never have been heard of by most of us before the Internet made people’s weirdy-assed secret fetishes into other people’s web-surfing entertainment, who might think this is peachy, but most of us would simply say “Eeeew,” or the cultural equivalent.
No, actually touching the stuff is more than most of us wanna deal with. With our hands, anyway.
Which implies that touching it in other ways might be perfectly acceptable. With, for example the part of the body that’s already in contact with the thing as it carries forth on its inexorable journey from the biological to the geological, you know?
Yeah, I know. Some of you are already gaping in utter horror, at least those of you who got this far. But the question was asked, and by ghod, I’m gonna answer it. I came here to fight ignorance, by ghod, and nobody ever said it was gonna be easy. Or particularly pleasant. Ask any teacher. They’ll tell you. Education is hell.
Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, no-handed turd manipulation.
There are any number of interesting things one can do during the excretion process. Speeding it up and slowing it down, for example, is a simple action of the abdominal muscles and sphincter control.
It gets better, though. With careful control of the muscles in question, the process can become ever more creative, as the excreter practices, daily. From the simple process of controlling speed, one can begin to determine the number of fragments, and from there can begin to literally sculpt the thing as it emerges into the open air, only to vanish into darkness once more. No, seriously! I knew a guy once, a chap named Pascuale, who swore he literally crapped a perfect Spanish-styled Don Quixote, complete with lance and helmet, mounted on a very narrow Rosinante! Admittedly, I never saw the thing, because as proud of it as he was, there was hygiene to consider, and he flushed the thing after admiring it for a few minutes.
For years afterwards, he wept, inwardly, for having forgotten to run and grab a Polaroid before his masterpiece was lost.
He was never able to duplicate it as successfully again, although he did show me a picture of an excellent scale model of a Spanish galleon, which he produced the morning after one particularly heavy meal, which had included a box of dental floss (for the rigging and ratlines).
Admittedly, very few of us are able to achieve this virtuoso level of artistic endeavor, very few indeed. Most of us are no more than Sunday painters, so to speak, compared to the great Pascuale. But there are those who try, who strive, to emulate the shapes of greatness, if you’ll pardon the pun.
It could well be that the reason you found dooky on the underside of the seat was due to the frenzied gyrations of an artist at work, an untrained but enthusiastic amateur attempting to grace the world with a new and shining work of art. I mean, based on some of Pascuale’s Polaroids, I would suspect that some of those items would have required some, um, adjustments on the part of the artist, if you know what I mean.
Or perhaps it was just diarrhea. Who can say? 
