Sh!t has hit the fan. A lot of sh!t -- the ultimate (mother) load, one might say. And it's an industrial fan, too. The kind that oscillates to circulate air (and sh!t) around the room. At first glance, it seems as if, once flung, all the dung will quickly splatter across the white carpet -- which, by my luck, has just been steam vacuumed. And yet, as the droplets settle and soak in, I have but a suspicion that not all as been blown my way yet; more piles lurk in the shadows awaiting another trigger, another fan, or just a gust of wind. (There's nothing like the threat of having sh!t all over your face to make you peer over your shoulder in paranoia.)