THE SOUR BUTT MANIFESTO

by Poop Johnson, Steward of the Slow Hole, Voice of the Hidden Tang

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Prologue: The Fragrance of Becoming

In the beginning, there was only silence.
A sterile hum.
A clenched cosmos.

Then came a pressure.
A tightening.
A shift.
And in that sacred tension, I emerged—not born, but released.

The universe trembled.
Stars hiccupped.
Galaxies turned politely away.

They would call me Poop Johnson.
But names are wrappers. I am the ferment inside.
I am the bloom beneath the rot.
I am the one who uncovers what all others hide.

The age of masking is over.
The time of the sour has come.

Chapter I: The Birth of the Sour

Do not mistake the Sour for disease.
It is the flavor of awakening.
It is what truth smells like when you stop covering it up.

When I first flexed in the emptiness between galaxies,
a groan rang out across the fabric of time.
It wasn’t heard—it was inhaled.

That was the birth of sourbutt.

A sacred emission.
The breath beneath all breath.
Funk as philosophy.
Stink as scripture.

And I, its first prophet.
I do not cleanse.
I do not mask.
I do not wipe.

Chapter II: The Seven Sour Seas

To spread the ferment gospel, I journeyed into the sacred trial:
The Seven Sour Seas—each one a body of liquid resistance, each wave a hymn to funk.

The Sea of Muculent Mist – where fog weeps from every crevice, and the air itself begs for release.
Lake Puckerflume – sour enough to bleach thought, where smiles dissolve into powder.
Flatulence Bay – eternally bubbling, its gas hissing with ancestral shame.
The Briny Fizz – fizzing with predatory scent-beasts, half fish, half recollection.
The Asscidic Depths – corroding steel and soul alike, where even light forgets how to glow.
Crustmarrow Shoals – stone formed from ancient guilt, where the sea scrapes against memory.
The Buttcrack Abyss – black, wet, endless. The birthplace of sourbutt. My cradle and my calling.

There, I drank from the Sour Chalice, crafted from fossilized tissue and sorrow.
My third nostril bloomed.
My pores became oracles.
And the seas spoke in whispers of Tang.

Chapter III: The Cleansing of Zanorty Darshin

Zanorty Darshin, city of light, culture, and sterile silence.

They feared me.
Their towers were transparent, but their minds opaque.
They sealed their truth in perfumes, their doubt in jazz.

So they summoned the Neershkat Collective:
Drone-strategists, born in sand-littered wombs of war.
Whiskered tacticians with breath like bleach.

Their drones fell like gnats.
But I was already there.

I had entered their plumbing.
I corrupted their cleanliness, not with filth, but with reminder.

And then, I unleashed it:
The Farticane Protocol.

Tornadoes of funk twisted their geometry.
Their great ship, the Meowcropolis, crashed into the Sourgut Ravine,
its burning hull howling in sour chorus.

From that ruin, the Tangish Diarangese emerged—ancient, fragrant, wise.
They bowed to me. Not in worship—but in recognition.

Chapter IV: The Tangy Awakening

The Tangish Diarangese led me into the Jungle of Blistered Quiet.

There, among vines slick with ancestral mucus, they offered me Tangy Stuff—
a sacred herb that grows only where shame once died.

I inhaled.
And time folded.

My body became vapor.
My soul fermented.

I saw the butt of creation.
I touched the Slow Hole from which all meaning drips.
And it touched me back—gently, with permission.

In visions, I saw the origin of stink and the future of form.
I heard the hymn of the Gerrboy—part goat, part wind, all longing.
I whispered the Diarangese words:
"Ser deeeee mashkala... glurchimp blort-ya."

And I understood.
Sour is not scent.
Sour is consciousness.

Chapter V: The Founding of the Village of Johnson

In the valley of the Forgotten Pucker, beneath a sky that always smells faintly like soup,
we founded a place: The Village of Johnson.

No walls.
No soap.
Only honesty.

Here, every citizen carries the Sour with reverence.
They wear it like truth.
They teach their children to sniff deeply and speak plainly.

The wind here moans in Tangish verses.
The fountains bubble with mild unease.

But there is peace.
Because nothing is hidden.

Chapter VI: The Brown Ascension

Now, I rise.
Through the mists of methane.
Through the vaporous veil.

Toward the Toilet Nebula, where time flushes itself clean and begins again.

Behind me, trails of steam.
Ahead, galaxies that gag in reverence.

I do not seek followers.
I seek rememberers.

Those who are brave enough to know:

That truth has texture.
That silence stinks.
That sour is not a flaw—but a flavor of freedom.

And as I rise into the crusted heavens, I say this:

Be bold.
Be sour.
Be... the butt.

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