The poop

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At the British Museum, under the light of a beautiful sunrise, a poop opened its eyes to the world. It was there, standing on the step, with its wet brown tone facing the sky. The museum's employees noticed its presence before opening the doors, but by the time they went out to clean it, it was already cordoned off, separated from the public like a criminal or a piece of art. It seems incredible that things like that happen in the 21st century. Nobody knew who was the owner of that poop, therefore, we proceeded to a detective practice that took several hours and whose only purpose was to identify the responsible. The first thing that was done was to check the security cameras, which were useless. With the first source of evidence discarded, experts took small samples and examined them in the laboratory to determine where they came from. This did not work either. With the time passed they tried everything to find the responsible person or the poop, they tried from advanced technologies to the most prosaic actions. After a while the people were organized in a line to be able to smell the poop, in order to be recognized some particularity in the essence of the aroma that offered some clue.

Each time the crowd expanded, more and more people gathered around the poop, observed it, saw it there, appreciated that chubby poop lying on the step. There are some who swear to have seen it, even arms that stretched out saying "Dad". But no one was responsible for that tourist attraction of the 22nd century, totally postmodern. The commotion of the people was so great that the news spread faster than a gossip, perhaps because of the curious nature of the case or maybe because of the inexplicable nature of the situation.  So much so that the news reached the queen and she decided to see it in person. When he saw it face to face she was surprised. She didn't expect a poop as clean, as well accommodated, as a stowage of hay enclosed in a perfect circle, it looked like a poop of royalty. So to finish the matter the queen adjudicated the poop, in reference, the entire crap. For a moment, perhaps for a few seconds, people remembered that the queen had an ass and needed to go to the bathroom, some even laughed to imagine her in the act of evacuation, with her fine panties under the knee, constipated or otherwise. Quickly, when everyone resumed the fiction, the poop was taken carefully to the museum, where it was preserved and where it was given an artistic background and historical analysis of liberal monarchical conjunctures. The poop went from bastard to daughter of royalty, became an act of rebellion against the system, an emblem of change, a sign of the breakdown of the schemes. Definitely, a work of art.

F. JaBieR