“One of the problems with all of this is that not all narratives are equal. Imagine, to take a silly example, that someone told you story after story extolling the virtues of eating dog shit. You've been told these stories since you were a child. You believe them. You eat dog shit hotdogs, dog shit ice cream, General Tso's dog shit. Sooner or later, if you are exposed to some other foods, you might figure out that dog shit really doesn't taste good. Or if you cling too tightly to these stories (or if your enculturation is so strong that dog shit actually does taste good to you), the diet might make you sick or kill you. To make this example a little less silly, substitute the word pesticides for dog shit. Or, for that matter, substitute Big Mac, Whopper, or Coca Cola.”

“You’re so obvious. Why didn’t you just roll in dog shit to make your outfit complete?”

“You know what happens when you keep a dog locked away from every living thing, except you visit once a day and kick the shit out of him?"Perreault laughed nervously. "Someone actually tried that?""What happens is, the dog's a social animal, and it gets so lonely it actually looks forward to the shit-kicking. It asks to be kicked. It begs.”

“There was dog shit on her shoe.”

“You've baked a really lovely cake, but then you've used dog shit for frosting.”

“Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’I sat up a fraction. ‘What?’‘Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’‘I don’t know, the lab report’s not back yet,’ I replied drily.‘I’m serious, is that dog shit?’‘How should I know?’Katz leaned far enough forward to give it a good look and a cautious sniff. ‘It is dog shit,’ he announced with an odd tone of satisfaction.‘Well, keep quiet about it or everybody’ll want some.’‘Go and clean it off, will ya? It’s making me nauseous.’And here the bickering started, in intense little whispers.‘You go and clean it off.’‘It’s your shoes.’‘Well, I kind of like it. Besides, it kills the smell of this guy next to me.’‘Well, it’s making me nauseous.’‘Well, I don’t give a shit.’‘Well, I think you’re a fuck-head.’‘Oh, you do, do you?’‘Yes, as a matter of fact. You’ve been a fuck-head since Austria.’‘Well, you’ve been a fuck-head since birth.’‘Me?’ A wounded look. ‘That’s rich. You were a fuck-head in the womb, Bryson. You’ve got three kinds of chromosomes: X, Y and fuck-head.”