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Vice Blog

BASQUE COUNTRY - SHITTING CLASS HERO

Meet Rambo. He's also nicknamed Sodom, most probably because he looks a lot like Tom Angelripper from the German thrash band Sodom, but slimmer. Rambo is well known in the Basque Country's squat scene, he plays bass in grindcore band Iron Batasuna, and has a fondness for something we could place freely between scatophilia, social activism, and… art? When having the urge to empty his bowels, he doesn't hesitate to do so in the nearest outdoor locale, be it idyllic green forest or the entrance rug to the mansion of a local bigwig. It's his "thing."

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Rambo's history reminded us of the legendary Serial Shitter, a secret crusader who perpetrated a series of scat attacks in the mid-80s that consisting of dropping his fresh feces on the dancefloors of the classiest, poshiest clubs and discos in Barcelona, then disappearing without a trace. We wanted to know more about Rambo's spiritual and ideological implications of his random-but-not-quite defecations, so we made an appointment with him in the very aristocratic, peaceful city of San Sebastián on a bright and sunny afternoon.

Vice: Hi, Rambo. All legends have a starting point. Tell us about yours.

Rambo:

As a kid I used to spend my weekends in my grandpa's old farmhouse, which actually was no more than a shack. We had sort of a "handicraft" toilet, which was a torn-off toilet seat placed in the middle of the mountains. Instead of running water, we used some old magazines to clean up our asses. It was a pleasure for me to shit outdoors, in the open air, enjoying the fresh breeze and the landscape…

And that joyful childhood experiences led to your current habit of emptying your bowels anywhere. Are you in protest or claiming something? Is this art?
No, no. I just do it whenever I feel the need, that's all. The ideal thing would be composting the turds, but living in a city like this makes it rather complicated to walk around the streets with a spade, digging the gardens.

But we know for sure that you've left "inner self presents" to powerful people on several occasions.

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True, though I prefer not to speak at length about this, for safety reasons. Once I did a truly memorable action here in San Sebastián on New Year's Day. I was on my way home after partying hard all night and decided to walk thru a residential area for high class people instead of going my usual way. "Fuck, theses houses are sooo posh, man," I thought. Then I remembered that the big boss of the real estate development agency that has ruined half of San Sebastián and expelled the squatters from my neighborhood lived in one of these houses. I found the spot and said to myself, "Welcome!" I then proceed to evacuate a pretty solid turd in front of his door for him to find.
I have another anecdote from when I went to Barcelona to play with my band, Iron Batasuna, along with another group, Destierro. I can't remember the date, but I do remember the exact place. Let me see, I have it in my notebook… Yeah, here it is: Molins de Rei, Barcelona. 10 Rector Colon Street. Colon Street, now that's a fitting name!
Actually I think it was Colón, with the accent in the second "o." Anyway. I snuck into a big house where I'd seen three cars parked in the garden; a Porsche, a Jaguar, and a Hummer. And I took a dump passionately in front of the entry door. Even rang the doorbell to give the residents a surprise, but it was 3 AM and they probably were sleeping. Fuck, the intention is what matters, isn't it? Ha ha! So you admit that there's a certain spirit of revenge in what you do.
Dude, if this little prank makes a rich motherfuckin' son of a bitch angry, fine! But I don't see it as any kind of a struggle; I'm not into any "My shit against the System" ethos. For me it's something more symbolic. I'm not a caped crusader, nor do I make plans or decide every action beforehand as the "Serial Shitter" did, defecating in the middle of crowded dance floors. That would be cool, an unknown guy in a leotard spreading scat panic in this, the most snotty of cities. Do you have any kind of signing to claim responsibility for your scat actions? A doodle on the wall, for example, or an ace of spades card…
Usually I piss on top of the turd, shaping it into a bowl. Nice flourish! Do you keep any special diet?
No. I haven't eaten meat for a long time, but booze on weekends aside, I don't keep any kind of diet. Well, actually I ingest lots of fiber to make my bowels work easier. And what has been the strangest scenario for one of your defecations?
Uh… A hermitage on the top of a mountain. I dumped on the altar. It was freezing cold outside, so… Tell me more about that log book, the diary in which you keep track of your actions.
I always carry a notebook and a pen so I can put on paper the bullshit sometimes I come up with. I write down nearly everything, ranging from dates of my villainies to reminders like, "Help my flatmate to quit smoking," or "September 24: go party with Ibón, Mikel, and Beñat."  You're hiding things from us. I've also been told that sometimes you compose short poems praising the art and pleasures of shitting in open air.
OK, OK! It's all true. Here's the story: once I had an interim job teaching a graphic design program and every Friday I had to attend a meeting here. Try to picture this: all the people with black suits and ties carrying suitcases and laptops, gel in the hair, and reeking of expensive cologne… Except me, of course, who arrived riding a bicycle, most of the times with a severe hangover after being up all night, unshowered and carrying a sleeping bag for the weekend. I arrived and immediately rushed to have some coffee and a quick smoke, basically so I could stay awake. Coffee and cigarettes, and then, obviously, a visit to the men's room. That's where I let my creative impulses run free.
On one occasion I went into an amazingly luxurious bathroom, a quite incredible place complete with crystal panels. I could only think about how great it would be to be in the mountains, shitting and watching the mountain range. But there I was, in a fucking crystal palace! So I wrote this little poem I'm gonna read to you:

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"Reflections from a Luxury Lavatory"

How rough my asshole feels 
Being watched by a perfumed pond 
With my buttocks on the neat bowl.

Hardly I perceive the stench of my droppings
I wish not to become part of the background
Of this Bohemian crystal jail.

How many lumbagoes developed
Perfuming the excrements
And the pissings of the necktied ones
Those labelled by Calvin Klein,
And carried around in convertible cars…