Tropical Leaves

My Diaper

I have absolutely had it with you people criticizing my diaper.

It is one thing to criticize me; I can take a punch. My diaper on the other hand is a sensitive soul, one who has endured a great deal of abuse during his long and storied career affixed to my groin/crotch region (the nexus point where my legs and torso meet up, and likely conspire against me).

Your criticisms, it is worth pointing out, are entirely baseless and utterly juvenile in both content and construction. So what that I have never changed my diaper? Actually, I've never taken it off, even for a moment, so perhaps now you begin to grasp who, or what, you are dealing with here.

The way I see it, if you don't want to get stool splattered on your clogs, and if you don't love gagging and retching uncontrollably, and having your eyes bulge out of your skull, then stay about fifty miles away from me. Upwind. Savvy?

Oh, oh what's all this then? You say your finest trophy nephew took a nasty digger on the greasy fecal slick I leave in my wake? His mouth was gaping as he fell, and so he snarfed down a whole seven-course-meal's worth of my sacred sauce? And now he's comatose?

Let me start off by saying how dreadfully sorry I am that this has transpired on my watch. I have already sent out cease-and-desist letters, not only to the fecal smear in question, but also to my diaper himself, and even to yours truly, fancy that! I have sent these missives via twelfth-class post, which is to say that I dropped them down a storm drain.

Even the Prime Minister seems to have quibbles with my diaper. One would almost think being splattered with another man's shit and piss were one of his "pet peeves". I told him how frightfully sorry I was for refurbishing the palace; he should have told me he abhorred earth tones and reeking fumes.

Each day, my sorriness grows exponentially. Even as I pen these words, I can feel an internal spasm indicating that my sorriness level has just quadrupled.

Oh, oh now I'm really sorry.

Oh? Oh, oh I can feel it.

The Sins of the Father Shall Fall Upon the Nine Nascent Nephews

-Ezekiel 1:44

Soon I shall unleash my Nine Nubile Nephews upon this paltry plane. Their skills have been honed through a rigorous curriculum of diaperic discipline. They howl in agony from what is likely seventh-degree diaper rash, but even this will pass in time, for every shriek means another hour with their head stuffed in my diaper as penance.

Already their diapers are powerful enough to make a stern man weep. As one beholds our overflowing diapers, one is confronted by a psionic tsunami of sublime gnosis:

"God has never changed His diaper."

I am a holy man, a prophet who emulates the eternal, and my nine nude nephews are my disciples.

Upon entering my presence, you absolutely must bow, or else I and my boys will come within fifty miles of you, and nobody wants that, least of all me, you diaperless swine. You who wallow in the pigsty of your own cleanliness. You are filthy. Filthy with grievous sin. I can smell it, even over the satanic reek of our diaperous fumes.

There is one thing you might do to purify yourself. But I warn you; none have yet survived this ordeal.

It is the Grease Gauntlet. You must slog your way through the labyrinthine halls of my diaper. You must defeat the hallowed serpent. And you must retrieve the golden nugget from the eye of the hurricane.

Return to surface level with the Diaperium ingot, and we shall shower you with our exalted ichor.

This is the very same noxious discharge that I blasted at the Prime Minister. I did this in order to honor him, to forge peace between our rival factions, but he did not seem to interpret it this way.

Perhaps his ire stems from the fact that my juices missed him, except for his eyes and mouth and meal, and utterly decimated a diplomatic contingent from Gung'gogo Mungar. War has raged ever since, with casualties estimated in the millions.

I have said before, and I shall iterate again, how terribly sorry I am that this has transpired. I maintain that it was a freak accident, and in truth none could be less responsible for what happened than I, a humble lamb of the Diapered God.

However, in response to the wrath directed against me I have taken punitive measures against my nephews' rears, though this has proved to be largely fruitless thanks to the great diaperous faulds fused to their groins.

Finally, I have employed a homeless man who claims he can travel backward in time to deliver a letter warning my past self before the aforementioned incident can transpire. Even if our present timeline doesn't shift, this move should create an alternate one wherein war is averted.

Interestingly enough, I found the homeless fellow dead in a gutter several days after our deal was negotiated. Apparently my diaper's musk acted as a slow poison on his fragile system. Oh, oh the hazards of time travel!


What's that? You don't think my apology is heartfelt? Oh, oh I'm so sorry you feel that way.

Oh? Oh?? Oh, now I'm even more sorry.

I'm sooooooooooo sorry!

I - oh! Oh, I can feel it! Oh! My sorriness seems to have manifested as some sort of corporeal object! It is entering my diaper now via some sort of fleshy aperture!

I - oh!!!