IT CAME IN THE MAIL

Catalogs, bills, magazines and a small package addressed to Mr. Bill Pearson; crammed unconveniently into the Monday morning mail.
With coffee in hand, I dismissed the detritus of suburban home ownership and concentrated on the plain brown box. Inside, a tube of some substance, and a card that read:
"Congratulations, Mr Pearson, you have been chosen to receive a test sample of this miraculous new product that guarantees a life-changing experience. All you have to do is rub a small amount on the back of your neck each morning, and you will be perceived very differently by the people around you. After you try the product, send us back this feedback card with your comments." It had a return address, it read simply: "Depeshit, Oregon."
On the tube, the only word: Depeshit.
"What are you reading?" barked the wife, adorned in housecoat, cucumber facemask, and evil.
"Uh...well... this stuff is Depeshit," I answered.
"Oh. OK. Like I wouldn't understand, huh? You can't bother to tell me because it's 'deep'. You're an ass Bill."
True, I did not bother. Instead I excused myself to the bathroom and rubbed some of the tube contents on my neck.
From downstairs: "What are you doing now, asshole?"
"I'm up to my neck in Depeshit," I called down.
No answer.
Out the door to work, I am greeted by Fred "Froggy" Warner, the bohemian lawncare guy.
"Huh, huh, huh...hey Mr P."
"Froggy, the bushes are starting to take over."
"Just growing plants to block off the neighbors like you asked, Mr P," croaked Froggy.
My neighbors are the Hitlers, or the Mortons...I can't keep it straight. "Oh, right. Good work Froggy. Good fences, good neighbors, etcetera."
"Huh huh huh, that's a good one Mr P, real deep."
I swear as I walked off, I heard him say "that's some deep shit."
At the office cooler, I found myself all the rage. "Yadda yadda, something about the weather..." The minions were enraptured, hanging on every word. Murmers of "cool, deep, that's some deep shit" could be heard from all corners. The office is getting better all the time.
Stopping off at the local bar, my best hope of a late arrival at home unless there's a mass extinction event, I am the most popular patron. "You know, there's lots of fecal bacteria in those bar snack bowls," I offered.
More murmers of "Damn!" "He's smart!" "That's deep!" "That's some deep shit!"
I am on a roll, and enjoying free drinks as the barkeep grudgingly changes out the munchy plates.
At the house, I dodge Lucifer's maidservant and head straight to the bathroom for more Depeshit.
I can get used to this, I think, as I dab on more 'shit to the neck.
Then I hear the doorbell.
Outside, a disparate contingent awaits.
"Who are you guys?" I ask.
"Well Mr Pearson, I'm with the IRS--I'm here about your last 3 tax returns, which to say the least, are way off...in the government's favor. These two gents behind me are with the DEA, something about the 12 marijuana plants on the border of your property. Oh, and those last guys are with the Police K-9 patrol. Apparently, their corpse dog has alerted on something in your back yard. You sir, are in some (wait for it...) deep shit."
Yup. Where the hell is that feedback card...