Toward the end of our conversation, I felt a little splatter on my shoulder. My new friend laughed and said, "You've just been crapped on!" I examined the white streak on my shoulder, then looked up at the sparrow's butt hanging off the eaves overhead. Seeing my disgust, the alcoholic said, "That's good luck, you know. To be crapped on."
"Oh, really?" I asked.
"Yeah, I get crapped on all the time."
Well, I could see it was working wonders for him. I gathered he hadn't held down a real job in years, was shuffled from friend's house to relative's house, was barely holding on.
Weeks later, I was standing outside work while a coworker smoked a cigarette and we talked about women and cars. It was quitting time. I felt a huge plop on my hatless head. I looked up. Perched on a metal rafter, I met a pigeon's butt eye-to-eye. We're talking a huge bird turd, not a tiny splat. I said to my coworker, "I've been shit on!" I cupped the area of my hair to keep the rotten mass from shifting as I ran into the office bathroom. Can't tell you how many times I rinsed my hair with hand soap. After the shock subsided, I laughed maniacally. Suddenly I had all the good luck in the world.
Milan Kundera, in The Unbearable Lightness of Being, waxes briefly on the theological dimension of poo. This is from the translation by Michael Henry Heim:
Shit is a more onerous theological problem than is evil. Since God gave man freedom, we can, if need be, accept the idea that He is not responsible for man's crimes. The responsibility for shit, however, rests entirely with Him, the Creator of man.