Things That Crap

In the living room, atop the piano, is a row of things that crap.

"So let me get this straight," Berni said, "that little yellow chicken there is forty-three years old?"

"Yup," I said. "And strictly speaking, it does not crap. It lays eggs. But it crapped like crazy in the Easter of 1971."

I will not repeat the story. It's posted in NOTES under the title "Chicken and Chocolate: An Easter Story." But yes, for a brief time, a little plastic chicken, like Pinocchio before him, was a REAL bird, and did what real birds do: crapped all over the place.

And ever since I published "Chicken and Chocolate," something like thirteen or fourteen years ago, a tradition has begun: people send me little plastic toys that crap candy. I don't mind this; truth is, I find it kind of sweet and flattering. It has, however, caused me to wonder whether people send Stephen King horror memorabilia, or whether people send George Romero dead bodies or something. Nevertheless, I still find it flattering. I've made people laugh to the point of snarking their coffee on their monitors across oceans and continents away. I'm quite proud of that.

Even worse, it's become a tradition. There is now an entire box marked CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS devoted to the Candy Crapping Menagerie, that must come out and be placed each Christmas.

The most recent addition, however, made me think.

Berni and I were at JoAnn's last night. We're bad about that. With her, it's quilting stuff and fabrics; with me, it's wood items and stuff that can be used in miniatures work. JoAnn's, Michael's, Hobby Lobby... these places are to us what a strip club is to college guys: an expensive source of temptation.

And last night, they were having a sale at this one. Everything on the table, half off. And there were some crapping candy toys. Naturally. They're a lot more common now than they were once.

"Got a penguin?" Berni asked. "How about a reindeer?"

"Got 'em both," I said. In truth, internet friends had sent me both of them years ago. I've actually BOUGHT very few of the items in the picture; most of them were gifts.

...but then, I saw the gingerbread man. A gingerbread man that craps candy. I couldn't resist. And this morning, I dug him out of the bag. He had to be field tested before he could join his brethren on the piano. I loaded him, wound him up, and turned him loose on the counter.

Berni sipped her coffee and looked at him critically. "He WALKS?" she said.

I nodded.

She sipped her coffee some more. "Great," she said. "A gingerbread man that lurches along plopping candy turds behind him. I can see why this is a trend."

I looked over the packaging as he toddled along the counter, pooping colorful little candy balls behind him. There was a catalog inside the torn blister. I looked at it. "Good lord," I said. "It's not just for holidays any more."

"?"

I showed her the catalog. "Crapping zoo animals, crapping pets, crapping monsters, crapping football players..."

"Holy sh--," she said, and then caught herself. "It's a whole industry."

And it all started with a silly little innocent plastic chicken... that wasn't even supposed to crap in the first place...