From 2006.
Westport, Connecticut, circa 1979:
The summer had arrived and the affluent denizens of Connecticut’s answer
to Beverly Hills shucked off their winter malaise, bought brand new and
cornea-wiltingly hideous beach attire, and readied themselves for a
season of fun in the sun at poolside. And not just any community
poolside, oh no. These children of privilege possessd huge, elaborate pools
of their own, fenced off from the encroaching world outside of the
family compound. Yes, Joe Average would never enjoy the luxury of having
his own backyard oasis, and who gave a shit about him anyway?
This state of in your face, kiss-my-rich-ass prosperity did not sit well
with every resident of the favored burg however, and it was up to the
adolescent neighborhood terrorists to make their distaste known.
Kenny anxiously stared at the clock radio next to his bed, each minute
seeming to drag while awaiting the stroke of midnight. Once that magic
hour arrived, Kenny would don his Chuck Taylors — the most silent of
stealthwear sneakers —steal out of the house into the moonlit night, and
make his own personal stab against his wealthier neighbors.
Yes, the nighttime was the right time, and Kenny had prepared for many
hours in advance. His meals that day had consisted of copious helpinngs of fiber and
assorted health food swiped from his mother’s pantry under the pretense
of fixing his questionable diet, and he could feel the inevitable
results percolating deep within his innards…
Soon would be the hour for Lincoln Logging.
At last it was midnight and Kenny threw off his covers and silently exited his home, all while his family slept securely. He wheeled his
bicycle out onto the street and pedaled away, carefully keeping to the
shadows. As he traveled he evaluated each house that he passed,
calculating which would make a perfect venue for the night’s
artistic/political declaration. After all, presentation was everything,
and if he couldn’t do it right it wasn’t worth doing at all.
After an hour of slowly prowling the secluded back streets, Kenny’s eyes
were entranced by a driveway entrance with a cement lawn jockey acting
as its sentry. But what good is a guard if he can say and do absolutely
nothing except perpetually smile his minstrel show grin? “Not much
good,” thought Kenny as he stashed his bike in the nearby shrubs, taking
care to obscure the vehicle’s reflective surfaces. He then sat in the
foliage for ten minutes, observing the premises for any hint of
security, even something as simple as a yappy household dog that might
betray his presence. Soon, Kenny felt that the coast was clear and crept
around the perimeter of the house, making a beeline for where he
instinctively knew the pool would be.
And there it was, a furnished lagoon right smack dab in the middle of
suburban Babylon, its depths illuminated at night, even when not in use,
just to draw the world’s attention to its owner’s Croesus-like assets.
The surrounding deck looked ready to handle a party of sixty or more at
the drop of a hat. Cushioned lawn chairs and couches littered the space,
all angled for a clear shot at the standing bar and the enormous
propane grill, behind which was an opulent chef’s prep area large enough
to hold untold barbecue fixings.
Yes, this was indeed a ripe setting for the blow that must be struck.
Kenny once more surveyed his surroundings for wary eyes, and when he
felt certain that he was unobserved he slipped quietly into the cool,
inviting water of the swimming pool. The underwater silence helped to
center Kenny, and after a few laps around he was ready to perform the
task at hand, the grand statement for Westport’s have-nots, a stiff,
upraised middle finger to the greedy bastards who looked down on him and
the others like him, namely the ethnic and white trash unworthies who
somehow infiltrated their bastion of means and power.
Kenny broke the surface, filled his lungs with the humid air, then
swam to the bottom of the pool, coming to rest in its deepest point. Now
was the time for relaxation, so he cleared his mind of all thought, turned himself so his head was toward the bottom of the pool, and
let his body loosen. As he reached a state of perfect calm, he felt his
bowels begin to lurch, and he swiftly doffed his swim trunks with an
ease that came from repetition. “Yes,” he thought, “Come on, oat bran!”
The excremental payload began to force its russet way out of Kenny’s
distended butthole, a profane anti-birth, a filthy nativity that spoke
more eloquently on the topic of class separation than the
fourteen-year-old Kenny could hope to verbally articulate. And then the
log shot free of its intestinal incarceration, lazily making its way to
surface in an image reminiscent of a newborn whale in search of its
first breath.
Kenny hauled himself out of the pool and surveyed the fruits of his
mission. There, swaying gently in the chlorinated water, lay a
spectacular two-foot, corn-packed toilet fish, floating in the opulent
pool with an arrogance that would be right at home on a crocodile,
secure in the knowledge that it was the baddest motherfucker on the
river. And, much like its amphibious brother, the log in question was
guaranteed to elicit shrill screams of panic and primal revulsion when
encountered.
Satisfied with his contribution to the ambiance, Kenny readied his
departure, pausing only to ponder what the manufacturers of the
children’s toy Lincoln Logs would think if they knew their product’s
name had become locally synonymous with squatting out a huge grunter in
some rich bastard’s see-ment pond.
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