We all have dreams. Some little. Some big. Most all of them broken, but so it goes in this nutty mortal coil. We've certainly had our fair share over the past year and even created a place for them. It's an Avid bin and it's chock full of shards and sharts from the behind of our Dickhouse editing scene. Every once in a while a dream returns from this bin though, even if it is just a shade of its former self.
That said, as much as we'd all like to think that girls don't poop, the truth is they do. Sometimes even worse than the fellas, a conclusion I've drawn from a highly inconclusive field study of the few females I know that are prone to dishing on their dumps and the fallout from the public restrooms they utilize and/or destroy with others of the same sex.
Luckily for them, when they do poo, or let out a little Cindy Lou Phew, there's money to be made in the way of products designed to keep the myth alive. For instance, have you heard about fart filtering underwear? How about Poopourri, where just a drop in the bowl can squelch the odorous ass matter and keep it on the dainty down under? Talk about a booming business model—the business of masking a model's boom-boom!
Of course, were such innovative things left to our asinine brain trust, we'd take the exact opposite tack. Don't suppress the flatulent air down there. Embrace it! But just don't let it out. Instead, color it bad! Or color it green, to be perfectly precise, because we've imagined what just such a world would look like and it would indeed make the late Louis Armstrong croon from the grave on how wonderful it would be.
There. We've done our part. Now science needs to assume responsibility and shoulder the mantle to put our colorful flatulence to the test—once and for all. The betterment of man- and womankind alike depends upon it.