If you stop long enough on any front porch for a cup of ice tea and a friendly smile, you'll eventually hear a whispered story delivered with a warm Southern twang. Over the trilling of crickets, the rush of a spring wind, and the babbling of a gnarled creek, one person will lean in with a sly smile and say...

"You know, I saw him once. "

If you disregard the groaning of the rest of the company present, and ask innocently, "Saw who?" you'll hear a tale spun from yarns begun long before you were a twinkle in your daddy's eye.

In this neck of the woods, they all know about him. It isn't so much a being, but perhaps more of a specter, that seizes control of honest people and turns them into something unwholesome. Something foul, something... downright obscene.

On a warm summer day, when the sun is dead center of an endless sky, when your mind isn't preoccupied with supernatural horrors that may lurk behind every creaking tree limb or rustled leaf, that is when you can expect him.

You will never know exactly when his red hot fingers have traced your spine, for the midday heat all but masks his touch. You can never rely on your ears, for his footfalls are nonexistent. He simply drifts on the warm stagnant air like a nightmare pulled on spider's silk.
There is one thing you can detect... you can smell his breath. But by then, you've already been transformed.

While you are standing beneath a tree, taking shelter from the intense heat, the smell hits you. It smells damp, mildewed... musky... perhaps a little earthy. You freeze, suddenly becoming aware of every drop of sweat that is slithering down your body. The 100 degrees that a moment ago was nearly suffocating, now feels cold and uncomfortable.

It completely surrounds you. It has taken your humanity, your dignity, your pride. There isn't a towel on the planet absorbent enough to dry you, nor enough Gold Bond powder to soothe you. You have swamp ass.

The beast has crept upon you in the dead still of the day and laid claim to your backside and your dignity.

Almost all of the South has heard the tale of poor Billy Suffner. One year, he had neglected to shower, and unbeknownst to him, this made him especially susceptible to Swamp Ass. Your own ripeness melds perfectly with the reek of his rashy, damp existence and calls him up from the marshes.

While he played with his friends at the shore of a cool creek, the smell overtook his companions. Billy had his back turned carrying on in his merriment, reveling in the fact that the return to school was at least another two weeks away. Being young and oblivious, he completely neglected to notice the warning signs that he was enveloped in a rankness that only others could smell. As they say:

"Everyone likes their own brand."

Suddenly, the creek had become unusually silent with the exception of a rattling, raspy sound. It was staggered but somehow still in unison. Billy faced the water, mustering the courage to turn around. Fear and misfortune hung in the air so thick that it was nearly palpable. He counted to three and spun about.

Laying still on the ground, with twisted expressions of pain and excruciating suffering on their faces, were all three of his playmates. Susie-Joe, Bo-Cleatus, and little Tommy all fallen prone in the gravel and clay, fearfully blue. That was when Billy realized that the sound he heard was their gasping for breath. They had suffocated.

Billy, being young and not privy to tales of the obscene was unaware that he was carrier of the summer plague that has killed all of his friends. Fueled by fear and pure adrenaline, he ran home, fearing he was surely the next to die. Little did he know, if he had simply jumped into the creek, he would have negated the Swamp Ass's spell and prevented the further tragedy that was about to befall those that he loved.

Sprinting through a yard scattered with old and rusty, bric-a-brac he could see the ramshackle outline of his double wide home. The shredded screen on the door rippling in a soft breeze. If he had only looked behind him and seen the dead grass and flowers he had left in his wake...

He burst through the door, a sweat splattered mess of tears and dirt, crying for help. His mother and father sprinted from the back room, desperate to run to his aid. Only to collapse in the hallway and fall away from earth, carried away to the afterlife on a cloud of noxious reek.

To this day, it is believed that little orphaned Billy still wanders the South, having become adopted by Swamp Ass himself and selecting his next victim.

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Save a life, please tell your children about Swamp Ass.

Brought to you by the council for clean butts.

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PSA Swamp Ass poster by @soundwavesphoton