THIS MORNING I read in “The Week” magazine that British paleontologists have discovered “the first fully preserved dinosaur anus.” [I’m not joking.] My heart leaps with joy at news of this tremendous discovery. My anus went missing back in 1964 when a surgeon excised my colon and associated nether parts, but these fossil hunters have located an asshole from the Mesozoic Era. Wherever it is that they’re searching, I hope that they spread out their area of exploration. Who knows what else they might find out there? Van Gogh’s ear? Amelia Earhart? Sir Galahad’s missing pinkie? Jimmy Hoffa? The singed udders of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow?
What greater wonder could there be than picking about in layers of sedimentary stone, only to happen upon a dinosaur’s preserved anus? The mind boggles at what ecstasy this rare find must have generated among the boys in the pith helmets. I don’t even want to imagine how this great find will be displayed in some London museum. And how will these boys celebrate once they’re cleaned up and toasting each other at the pub? “Let’s drink to the old asshole,” they’ll revel, raising their glasses. The other patrons will surely wonder which politician they’re celebrating. Eventually, of course, they’ll all have to go home after their weeks out in the field, home to the wife who’ll greet them at the door with a practiced smirk and ask: “Well, did you find anything this time?”

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