Piss. (Extracted from More Words, by Josiah Tangent, Tristram Tangent's son) "Consider piss, a golden spear driven swiftly down from one's body into their earth steadfast as an anchor, a rope (if you will) binding the secret delicate flares and tiny handless, fingerless, jointless arms of one's interior to the coarser mysteries of the earth, a line of communion and communication, a rope for the ants to climb from their desecrated nest into the pink folds of your intestines and hide there in the warmth. Compare pissing to that other act of emission, birth, which leads to death, despair, unnecessary complications and hidden events hideous to contemplate; and see how benevolent is the piss! It brings nothing but joy and relief. Its unpleasantness is contained only in its smell, which recedes after a fair while. How much more bearable is this than the person at a party who steals your drink, whose presence is a direct outcome of birth. Would that they were a stream of benevolent Piss. "