All graphics, literary material, and general silliness, on this site is copyrighted to DBU Productions 2001-2004. Any use of material from this site without the expressed permission of DBU Production is prohibited by law. Any violators will be prosecuted and poo'ed on by the lawyers of DBU Productions.
Hi there. My name is Trent and I want to welcome to my online and/or literary madness.
First off, I want to let you know that no I do not have a poo fetish. Poo butter is the brain child of my mind marrying together shock comedy with a southern treat -- Apple Butter.
Why does Apple Butter remind me of the south? Nothing reminds me more of the south than Apple butter which my parents enjoyed on their morning toast, or that we, children enjoyed as a midday snack. Combining the shock value to the postcard memory brought about in a surreal way, the name and anthem for this site.
Beyond that though, I am reminded of a Sawyeresque moment in my boyhood, where my two older brothers, my twin sister, and I, would carry on through a local apple orchard for hours on end. The waning hours of the day symbolized the need to grow up and beyond that innocent period in our lives as we all must do.
I miss that apple orchard. I miss climbing the trees so carelessly, freewielding in my thoughts of being a conquering heroe, reckless in my pursuit of the top. I miss feeling the summer's heat married to the sweat on the back of my neck as we frollicked about. Or the smell of the freshly cut grass melding with the smells of the honeysuckle, lillacs, and fresh linen hanging on a wire line just beyond the field's reach.
It could have been a day within the 1800's, mid 1900's, or modern day. Time itself was irrelevant as it often is when something transcends itself in becoming something so very much more.
The sun has set on that boyhood memory. The sights and sounds of that moment fade as well. Yet, I will never forget that sensation, the innocence and exhilartion of being free, inquisitve, vicarious in play.
All of which I bring to my own comedic stylings. I do not resemble the observational humor as the trend would suggest of the modern day comedian. I find their efforts, though merited, incomplete in their effort to paint a portrait with their words, create and share a yarn serious or nonsensical with their ideas.
That isn't my attempt with this site. As I reach out to embrace the eddies of Twain and Stuart as regional guideposts, I equally embrace the efforts of Grizzard Jr, Whitman, and Van Gogh, as I weave my yarns into being. In doing so, I hope to bring levity, honesty, and a passionate curiousity that I had as a child, that I still have as a man, for a moment that can happen to anyone, at anytime, that will transcend its place in time.
That is my hope. Please, enjoy my site. Do let me know what you think. As time permits, I shall answer all queries and responses. Thank you again for digesting my madness.
First off, I want to let you know that no I do not have a poo fetish. Poo butter is the brain child of my mind marrying together shock comedy with a southern treat -- Apple Butter.
Why does Apple Butter remind me of the south? Nothing reminds me more of the south than Apple butter which my parents enjoyed on their morning toast, or that we, children enjoyed as a midday snack. Combining the shock value to the postcard memory brought about in a surreal way, the name and anthem for this site.
Beyond that though, I am reminded of a Sawyeresque moment in my boyhood, where my two older brothers, my twin sister, and I, would carry on through a local apple orchard for hours on end. The waning hours of the day symbolized the need to grow up and beyond that innocent period in our lives as we all must do.
I miss that apple orchard. I miss climbing the trees so carelessly, freewielding in my thoughts of being a conquering heroe, reckless in my pursuit of the top. I miss feeling the summer's heat married to the sweat on the back of my neck as we frollicked about. Or the smell of the freshly cut grass melding with the smells of the honeysuckle, lillacs, and fresh linen hanging on a wire line just beyond the field's reach.
It could have been a day within the 1800's, mid 1900's, or modern day. Time itself was irrelevant as it often is when something transcends itself in becoming something so very much more.
The sun has set on that boyhood memory. The sights and sounds of that moment fade as well. Yet, I will never forget that sensation, the innocence and exhilartion of being free, inquisitve, vicarious in play.
All of which I bring to my own comedic stylings. I do not resemble the observational humor as the trend would suggest of the modern day comedian. I find their efforts, though merited, incomplete in their effort to paint a portrait with their words, create and share a yarn serious or nonsensical with their ideas.
That isn't my attempt with this site. As I reach out to embrace the eddies of Twain and Stuart as regional guideposts, I equally embrace the efforts of Grizzard Jr, Whitman, and Van Gogh, as I weave my yarns into being. In doing so, I hope to bring levity, honesty, and a passionate curiousity that I had as a child, that I still have as a man, for a moment that can happen to anyone, at anytime, that will transcend its place in time.
That is my hope. Please, enjoy my site. Do let me know what you think. As time permits, I shall answer all queries and responses. Thank you again for digesting my madness.