PAPA DUKE illustrated this story, written by his middle son, in 1989.
Early one morning, when I finished doing my business, the toilet talked back at me.
"Little girl," said the toilet. "You've pooped one poop too many. You'd better not flush--or they're coming back to get you."
"Don't be rude, toilet," I said. "Talking about poopies is gross. And, anyway, toilets can't talk." I flushed a good strong flush.
"You'll see..." the toilet hummed, as water swished round and round.
"What cheek," I said.
Then I walked into the living room--and came face to face with every poop I ever pooped! Big poops. Small poops. Skinny poops. Fat poops. All kinds of poops. Having a poop party.
"Eeewwwww," I screamed. "Dis-gusting!" I ran out of the living room into my bedroom. That's where I found more poops, soiling my dolls.
"Stop it!" I screamed at the poops. "Leave my Barbie dolls alone!"
But the poops did not listen. A mean gang called the Poop Punks turned on me and yelled, "We're Number Two--and we're gonna get you!"
I ran back to the toilet. "Toilet, talk to me," I said. "Tell me what to do. The poops have come back!"
"I'm fed up," said the toilet. "The only time you pay attention to me is when you want to lay poops. I faithfully flush these unmentionables--too gross to talk about, you said so yourself. And when I warn you that you've pooped one poop too many, you call me rude and say I can't talk. And now you want me to talk."
"Please, Mister Toilet," I begged. "How can I stop the poops?"
"And now you even call me mister," said the toilet. "Finally, a little respect. I'm sorry for the poops coming back, little girl, but there's nothing I can doo-doo."
"That's not funny, toilet," I said.
The poops from the living room joined rank with the poops from my bedroom, and this pack of poop reeked big-time.
"Toilet!" I cried, holding my nose. "Do something!"
"I'm sorry, little girl," said the toilet. "You've pooped one poop too many."
The poops flocked before me, leaving skid marks on the carpet.
Colonel Crappeur, the biggest, fattest poop of all, looked up at me, straight in the eye. "Everyone is always pooping, pooping, pooping," he growled. "Every day of the week, every week of the month, every month of the year. And now there's no place left for us poops to go. And on top of that, we've been given a bum rap. What do you think of that?"
"I've never thought about it," I said.
"She's never thought about it," mimicked Pritchard and Prunella Poop in unison.
All the poops laughed.
"Well, think about it now, sister," yelled a poop named Diddly Dung. "Cos we've come back!"
"But you can't stay here!" I stamped my foot, and nearly stepped in poop.
"You made us," said Colonel Crappeur. "So you've got us. As a founding-member of the John Crapper Society, I'm sick and tired of mixing with other poops."
"Where else can we go?" squeaked Nerdy Turd from the back.
"I'll flush you back down the toilet," I offered.
"Oh, no," the toilet snapped his lid shut. "I've already flushed them poops once. It ain't my job to flush the same poopies twice. I warned you about pooping one poop too many, little girl, so now you're stuck with them."
I turned to the plunger and the toilet brush.
"Plunger?" I said. "Brush? Can you help me?"
The plunger puckered. "We've had it with that darn toilet."
"Yeah," squealed the brush. "We have the filthiest job of all, and that toilet gives us zero credit for keeping them poops in Poopland. We're on strike!"
"Harummmph," said the toilet. "Where were you two last time I got stuffed up? You're nothing but a pair of no-good slouches!"
"See what I mean?" said the brush.
"Totally insensitive," said the plunger.
Meantime, the poops surrounded me with menace.
"We have rights, too, ya know!" yelled a poop from the Ca-Ca Clique. "We're card-carrying members of the NRA."
"The what?" I said.
"Nappie Rash Association," he said with pride.
Two other gangs--the Turd Tribe and the Stoolies--launched an offensive on me, led by Colonel Crappeur and his Crapper Clan.
I screamed.
A moment later, mommy woke me and said to get ready for school. I would have told her my dream, but I did not fancy a bar of soap for breakfast.
Moral: Be careful what you flush away. It may come back to haunt you.
