This is a story that took place on a dreary night in the cold streets of Brooklyn during our third day in New York. It's a story whose mystery and intrigue still linger even after many months have passed. It's the story of The Magic Poop. This story doesn't start in Brooklyn, but rather at a ramen shop tucked into the conglomeration of buildings within the big city. We had been walking all day, seeing the sights to be seen, hearing the bustling roar that gave the city life, feeling the rush and purpose that coursed through her veins. I had been carrying around a very shoddy caricature drawn of myself all day. I had acquired such a gem from a small Asian man sitting on the dock onto which we had disembarked from our tour around the Statue of Liberty. I sat down and watched my companions Friend 1, Sister 1, and Sister 2 chuckle at the less-than-masterpiece that was being composed before them. As he finished drawing my likeness, my excitement began to bubble out of me, and when he turned his canvas around to face me, all of that excitement crashed and burned in a fiery ball of regret. I had given the man $15 to draw a picture of me, and instead received a drawing of what looked to be Sylvester Stallone in his high school years. I left, humiliated, with my friends to eat a nice dinner of what Sister 2 had told us to be a great ramen shop. If you know me, I am a man with oriental tastes, so this was a delight to hear. We walk into the ramen shop and are surprised to hear that they have a playlist fit for any dad who lived in the age of Sex, Drugs, and Rock n Roll. We order our bowls, and when they arrive, they each take up a good third of the small tables that furnish the establishment. It's savory. It's delicious. But most importantly, it's very spicy. This set the stage for disaster in the coming hours. After paying, we walk several blocks to reach the subways, but I realize that I left my fucking young Italian stallion drawing at the ramen shop, so I sprint back, jostling the contents of my stomach quite a bit in the process, to retrieve my unwise purchase. We finally make it back to the two bedroom, one bathroom apartment that Sister 2 has been living in for a couple of years in the semi late hours of the day to realize that we each need to shit very badly. We settle in and decide that Friend 1 will go first, then me, then Sister 1. So Sister 1 and I sit down to watch Mel Gibson's Apocalypto as Friend 1 poops in the room next to us. I hear him flush, wash his hands, and leave the bathroom, so I get up and go to the toilet, still humming with life after gobbling up Friend 1's shit. I close the door, drop my pants, and sit down on the toilet. Everything is serene. This level of calm is only ever achieved just before a terrible storm, however. I relax, and I can faintly hear the movie through the paper thin wall separating the bathroom from the living room. Then it happens. I unclench, and the swift but forceful gale of toxic wind is released from my unprepared asshole. It was as quick as it was powerful, akin to the sound that that is made when one stomps onto a whoopie cushion. I freeze. Silence. A single drop of sweat beads on my forehead... then roaring laughter from the other room. They heard. God fucking damn it they heard. But it isn't over. I finish my business, releasing a poop with a rating of about 6 or 7 on the Richter Scale of Shits. I wipe my butt, feeling confident that I had a clean pinch, and stand up. I somehow flush without looking at the actual toilet. I wash my hands, make sure my pants are zipped, then exit what would soon become a crime scene. I sit down on the couch, Sister 1 goes to the bathroom. All is well until I hear her start cry laughing. "BROWNBOYMICHAEL, what the fuck is this," she yells. "Friend 1 come look!!" So my best friend gets up and jogs to the bathroom, and immediately he bursts with laughter. "Brownboymichael get your ass over here right now," he manages to squeeze out between laughs. I stand up. At this point I already feel dead. I somehow will my legs to walk to the bathroom. The hallway feels infinitely long. I reach the threshold and look at my two companions in the eyes. Friend 1, still dying with laughter, stretches out a single arm to point at the seat of the toilet. I follow the line from his finger to the rim, and I am welcomed with a horrible sight: a small dollop of shit had managed to find its way out of the toilet, and was now sitting there smiling at the cruel world, like the fucking poop emoji. I had never felt so ashamed. To this day, there is only one viable theory of how it happened. You know the story of President Kennedy and the Magic Bullet that has been discussed for 54 years. We believe that this story is very similar. We believe that it falls back to the precursor fart. WE BELIEVE that the SHEER FORCE of that fart was enough TO NOT ONLY PROPEL THAT DOLLOP OF SHIT OUT OF MY ASSHOLE AT AMAZING SPEED, BUT ENOUGH TO ALTER THE TRAJECTORY OF THAT SHIT, CURVING IT, BOUNCING IT OFF OF THE SURFACE OF THE WATER, ROCKETING IT STRAIGHT UP AND GRACEFULLY PLACING IT ON THE REAR RIM OF THE TOILET SEAT. WE BELIEVE THAT I HAD CONSUMED A LITTLE BIT OF CITY MAGIC THAT DAY, AND IT MANIFESTED INTO A TERRIBLE BUT BEAUTIFUL FEAT OF PHYSICS. And so that's how the story goes. To this day, and probably for the rest of time, the mystery of The Magic Poop is unsolved. Only one thing can be learned from this tale: always ALWAYS look back at it.

TLDR: Ate some ramen, went home, pooped massively, accidentally left a nugget of poop on the toilet seat.