The Corrections

Dude’s gotta put his own interests first.”
    “Civilization depends upon restraint,” Alfred said.
    “Civilization? Overrated. I ask you what’s it ever done for me? Flushed me down the toilet! Treated me like shit!”
    “But that’s what you are ,” Alfred pleaded, hoping the turd might see the logic. “That’s what a toilet is for .”
    “Who you calling shit here, asshole? I got the same rights as everybody else, don’t I? Life, liberty, the pussuit of hot-pussyness? That’s what it says in the Constitution of the You Nighted—”
    “That’s not right,” Alfred said. “You’re thinking of the Declaration of Independence.”
    “Some old yellow piece a paper somewhere, what the ratass fuck do I care what exact paper? Tightasses like you been correcting every fucking word outta my mouth since I was yay big. You and all the constipated fascist schoolteachers and Nazi cops. For all I care the words are printed on a piece of fucking toilet paper. I say it’s a free country, I am in the majority, and you , fella, are a minority. And so fuck you.”
    The turd had an attitude, a tone of voice, that Alfred found eerily familiar but couldn’t quite place. It began to roll and tumble on his pillow, spreading a shiny greenish-brown film with little lumps and fibers in it, leaving white creases and hollows where the fabric was bunched. Alfred, on the floor by the bed, covered his nose and mouth with his hands to mitigate the stench and horror.
    Then the turd ran up the leg of his pajamas. He felt its tickling mouselike feet.
    “Enid!” he called with all the strength he had.
    The turd was somewhere in the neighborhood of his upper thighs. Struggling to bend his rigid legs and hook his semifunctional thumbs on the waistband, he pulled the pajamas down to trap the turd inside the fabric. He suddenlyunderstood that the turd was an escaped convict, a piece of human refuse that belonged in jail. That this was what jail was for: people who believed that they, rather than society, made the rules. And if jail did not deter them, they deserved death! Death! Drawing strength from his rage, Alfred succeeded in pulling the ball of pajamas from his feet, and with oscillating arms he wrestled the ball to the carpeting, hammering it with his forearms, and then wedged it deep between the firm Nordic mattress and the Nordic box spring.
    He knelt, catching his breath, in his pajama top and adult diaper.
    Enid continued to sleep. Something distinctly fairy-tale-like in her attitude tonight.
    “Phlblaaatth!” the turd taunted. It had reappeared on the wall above Alfred’s bed and hung precariously, as if flung there, beside a framed etching of the Oslo waterfront.
    “God damn you!” Alfred said. “You belong in jail!”
    The turd wheezed with laughter as it slid very slowly down the wall, its viscous pseudopods threatening to drip on the sheets below. “Seems to me,” it said, “you anal retentive type personalities want everything in jail. Like, little kids, bad news, man, they pull your tchotchkes off your shelves, they drop food on the carpet, they cry in theaters, they miss the pot. Put ’em in the slammer! And Polynesians , man, they track sand in the house, get fish juice on the furniture, and all those pubescent chickies with their honkers exposed? Jail ‘em! And how about ten to twenty, while we’re at it, for every horny little teenager, I mean talk about insolence, talk about no restraint. And Negroes (sore topic, Fred?), I’m hearing rambunctious shouting and interesting grammar, I’m smelling liquor of the malt variety and sweat that’s very rich and scalpy, and all that dancing and whoopee-making and singers that coo like body parts wetted with saliva and special jellies: what’s a jail for if not to toss a Negro in it? And your Caribbeans with their spliffs and their potbelly toddlers andtheir like daily barbecues and ratborne hanta viruses and sugary drinks with pig blood at the bottom? Slam the cell door, eat the key. And the Chinese, man, those creepy-ass weird-name vegetables like homegrown dildos somebody forgot to wash after using, one-dollah, one-dollah, and those slimy carps and skinned-alive songbirds, and come on, like, puppy-dog soup and pooty-tat dumplings and female infants are national delicacies, and pork bung , by which we’re referring here to the anus of a swine , presumably a sort of chewy and bristly type item, pork bung’s a thing Chinks pay money for to eat ? What say