Steve Tsengas has a BS in engineering, a MS in Business and Behavioral Science, and a Phd in Natural Health and Nutrition. He is a patent holder, a member of the National Inventors Hall of Fame, and is the founder of Ourpets.com. And now he's the owner of some Jurassic poop.

Bought at a New York auction, the poop in question originally shot out of a dinosaur butt around 130 million years ago. Today it looks like a large driveway rock. I bet if you turn over the one on its left, you will find a little compartment that hid the key to Grog's apartment -- a great hiding place, because no one wanted to pick up fresh dinosaur poop to see if the extra key to his apartment was under it.

CNN asked him "Why?" And I found his response deep and worthy of contemplation. To quote CNN, "Tsengas bought the dung in hopes of motivating his employees and using it as a marketing tool by displaying it at the company's booth at trade shows."

I wonder if the former part of this quote means he will threaten to throw it at employees who don't do their job properly. This would motivate me. I can't imagine dodging poop rocks tossed by a cranky retired patent genius angry that I'm not processing online orders fast enough. I'd be afraid to see him coming around the corner of my cubicle, using the stretchy part of an old stethoscope or something operational and pharmaceutical-like to hurl Jurassic poop rocks at me because I've got a record-breaking game of Tetris on my monitor instead of Wilma from Montana's latest order of Pick-Up Bags. He might go off, whipping that coprolite at me with the fury of a Viking Berserker, and then I'd be sorry. I'd have a hell of a time explaining the dent in my head to the company HMO; I doubt fossilized poop injuries would be covered. I'd awaken from a slight concussion to find him sweating and enraged, standing over me, with that stone poopy piece cradled in cracking surgical tubing and dripping in blood. My blood. His breath would come in harsh, ragged gasps, his chest heaving, and he'd say, "Play Tetris on your own time, asshole."

And then I'd know:

Any man willing to pay a grand for some old poop means business.

"You talk about art? What is art? Art is what artists do. If it shocks you, it's art. One of the things art should do is make you think and question things."

While the US government seems content (so far) to allow its citizens to read funny poop stories, it has drawn the line at allowing them watch people poop on each other. Ira Isaacs, a fifty-seven-year-old Los Angeles director, will go on trial next month on a six-count federal obscenity indictment for making films like Laurie's Toilet Show, Mako's First Time Scat, Gang Bang Horse (Pony Sex Game), and Hollywood Scat Amateurs No. 7.

(You don't want to Google those titles.)

But Isaacs isn't pursuing common-sense defenses like First Amendment arguments or the fact that consenting adults should be able to watch other consenting adults poop on whoever and whatever they please. Instead, he's arguing that his work is art, not porn, and thus not subject to decency laws.

"I don't want to say this is porn," Isaacs told Radar Magazine, "I don't think the people watch my stuff to watch sex. They can watch porn for that."

Isaacs elaborates in an interview with Adult Video News (link NSFW): "People don't buy my videos because they want to watch people having sex. Regular porn does that. I need to convince people that mine is serious art."

So he's going to take the stand and argue that Debbie Does Imodium is serious artistic expression. And 2 Girls 1 Cup, as Reverse Cowgirl points out, is going to bolster his case -- because (and our own poll supports this point), the people watching it are not looking to get their rocks off. "People are trying to shock themselves, because in today's world, everything is shock on TV. {...} People need a lot to be shocked these days." People watching 2 Girls 1 Cup, he says, aren't seeking sexual gratification. So the gratification they get can only be artistic.

Isaacs' product is packaged like porn, is marketed like porn, and is consumed like porn. Doesn't that make it porn? Six years ago, I asked the same question to Jed Ela, the artist behind ShitBegone toilet paper. "Your {declared artistic} intentions aside," I asked, "you are making and selling a product. You market something that appeals to a niche. To me, that sounds like capitalism. If you consider ShitBegone art, how do you differentiate it from what Proctor and Gamble does?"

Ela's answer convinced me that ShitBegone is art. So because I'm also convinced that Merde d'Artista is art and Fountain is art and Cloaca is art, does that mean that I have to believe Hollywood Scat Amateurs Numbers 1-6 are art as well? I sure hope not. Because that kind of art is gross.

The world stock exchange has recently seen quite a rise in the price of gold. Over the past quarter-century, gold per ounce had not once topped the nine hundred dollar mark -- but this March, it came within ten dollars of reaching one thousand dollars per ounce.

This type of news doesn't usually grace the cyber pages at which we glance whilst wiping. Even as we must surely have our fair share of shameful stock-exchange fly-by-nighters, most of us come here to discuss real gold. The stuff we all produce. The real stock. And yet, during the past three months, these two human concerns were intermingled in a genuine contest -- nugget versus nugget holder -- as one of the world's most powerful jewelers contemplated melting down the world's most valuable toilet in the name of the almighty dollar.

Hang Fung Gold Technology is a world powerhouse that's built its fortune on glittery shiny goodness, with over one-hundred-and-sixty stores spread across the globe. By melting down some gold, they could set up more stores in China, thus increasing their income later on. And yet, this global mogul had decided that their toilet is to remained unflushed.

That's right. They have decided to leave their golden throne alone, despite the fact that a cool thirty-two to thirty-five million dollars in revenue could be gathered by melting down one metric ton of their golden tourist attractions, the toilet being one of the heaviest. But while other objects will head to the smelter, the toilet will be left alone.

Why would a company dedicated to its investors financial growth decide that one of its heaviest -- and thus most valuable -- objects is too sacred to liquidate?

Sometimes publicity wins, I guess, and the eradication of an icon, no matter its shape, isn't worth the gain that would be incurred. Even though we're not talking about a statue dedicated to a living idol like Manny Pacquiao; we're talking about a plumbing fixture.

You know... more than any other BM Newswire I've researched, this one tells me that Dave is right in his aim to delve into the undercurrent of our collective cultures, striving to find the one throne we all worship. If a toilet holds the key making millionaire investors richer and is nevertheless left alone, there must be a lesson to be learned from beholding it in its unsullied state.

As a child, I remember going to the Pittsburgh Museum of Natural History for class trips. We usually had a tour guide who would let us touch an arrowhead or a spear or something before describing how these fossils and artifacts helped scientists of today learn about our ancestors. One year we were fortunate enough to hold a crudely-made cutting tool: a rock with one edge sharpened by another rock. I remember we each impatiently stood waiting our turn while someone's mom regulated the procedure -- the selfish kids wanted to grab it out of their neighbors' hands too early and didn't want to hand it over when it was time for the next in line.

I can't blame them. It was an exciting thing, that rock. Some grunting hairy guy had used it to pry the skin off of a wooly mammoth. Gross! Cool! How old is this again? Are these available in the gift shop? Can we try to skin Joey's arm during the lunch break?

I doubt we would have been as eager to hold that artifact if it had been a piece of poop. However, that's what has the scientific community truly excited right now: a piece of caveman poop has been found in Oregon that predates any other human evidence in North America by over one thousand years.

Neat? Cool? Do they sell these in the gift shop? No, no, and NO.

Researchers from the Universities of Oregon and Copenhagen found a mass of fossilized human feces in Paisley Caves, located in the south-central part of Oregon. As the New York Times reports, "Few artifacts were found at the cave, the discovery team reported, which suggested that the occupants' visits were brief." Could be that a single Shameful Shitter ducked into a cave for a moment's privacy and deposited one of the most important poops in human history.

The scientists extracted the DNA in the droppings and determined it to be unique to present-day Native Americans. Because it was found to hold two ancient Asian genetic strains specific to Native North Americans, and because it was carbon-dated to be approximately 14,340 years old, we'll now have to rewrite the books. 14,340 years? That means this little piece of poo sets the immigration of the first North Americans one thousand years earlier than we'd originally believed.

What an important little turd.

"Never mind modern technology," said the residents of San Diego, as I discussed back in August of 2006. "Never mind science and reason. Never mind the billions of dollars of research that have gone into developing filtering and cleansing equipment capable of purifying water down to the atomic level.

"Poop," said the residents of San Diego, "is glue. It's a special kind of glue that sticks to water and creates a bond that, no matter what science says, no man can tear asunder."

San Diego has three million people living in a city with enough water for three hundred thousand of them. Nevertheless, forced to make a stupid decision by a superstitious constituency that believes poo love is strong enough to defy physics, San Diego mayor Jerry Sanders took to his desk last November and vetoed the city's toilet-to-tap water recycling program. The city council overturned his veto, but the fight continues.

But while San Diego bickers over the nature of romance and feces, reason and logic have triumphed in Orange County. This January, officials opened the world's largest water purification project. Wired News has a cool pictures of the systems that will provide clean water to 100,000 Orange County residents at rates lower than most other municipal sources. The plant cleanses and purifies the water and then flows it into nearby lakes, where it slowly trickles down into the aquifer and then, months later, back into the taps of the residents.

Slate Magazine provides a brief look into the water crisis facing California and the world. (And it points out the irony in Orange County's system: "Although putting water into the ground, rivers, or lakes provides some additional filtering and more opportunities for monitoring quality, the benefits of doing it that way are largely psychological. In its 2004 report on the topic, the EPA concluded that Americans perceive this water to be 'laundered' as it moves through the ground or other bodies of water, even though in some instances, according to the report, 'quality may actually be degraded as it passes through the environment.'" In fact, supertreated wastewater "is clean enough to drink right after treatment.")

More American cities need to follow Orange County's example. It collects sewage and, in accordance with the laws of nature and the State of California, allows poop and water to divorce. The poop is physically removed from its mate, forced to watch its true love move on with life, enjoy a brief marriage with microfilters and disinfectants, and then return to the water cycle to eventually work its way back into a toilet and find a new piece of poop to mate with. Poo and water have a strong relationship, but nothing lasts forever. If only San Diego would get the message.

If while traveling by train in India you are stricken with a case of Delhi Belly and need to use the bathroom lest you crap yourself, you'll find the toilet on board interesting. It doesn't flush, or at least not in the sense that we, the American public, might define flushing. A hole in the toilet bowl opens up and whatever you've deposited there falls straight onto the tracks; you can actually look through the hole and see the ground rushing by below you. If you've seen the The Mummy Returns, then you know what I'm talking about.

I'm sure there are people who have dropped things through that hole without meaning to, but I doubt that anyone has ever dropped anything as precious as what landed between the rails last month on an overnight trip in Gujarat: a premature newborn baby.

A young woman, seven months pregnant, went to the bathroom shortly after midnight February 26th on a train traveling near Ahmadabad, India. She passed out after giving birth prematurely. When she failed to come out after two stations, her relatives knocked on the door; and when she emerged, dazed and covered in blood but with no child to be seen, they pulled the emergency brake. Someone notified the station closest to where she'd given birth.

A guard from the station found the three-pound baby girl an hour-and-a-half later with a low heart rate and suffering from slight hypothermia. She had to be resuscitated before being taken to Rajasthan Hospital, where she was immediately admitted along with her mother. If you click on the link, you can see a video of the mother and the baby, both of whom are now doing well.

In its preparation for hosting the 2008 Summer Olympics, the Chinese government has been engaged in massive construction and renovations in Beijing. One of the funnier stories to come out of this project was on the campaign to fix all the signs written in broken English. Now the Chinese are eying their bathrooms: the BBC reports that, in an effort to accommodate foreign visitors, officials at many venues are replacing the squat toilets with sit-down models.

This comes after a Beijing test event resulted in complaints about the squat toilets. "Nowadays," an official is quoted as saying, " more and more people demand sit-down toilets."

I guess tourists are pretty pushy in China. But half a million foreigners have paid a ton to attend the Olympics and they'll all have to poop while they're in Beijing; it makes sense to make the experience as pleasant as possible. (Also, notice that the toilet featured in the article needs to be flushed! There's old toilet paper in it! Now that's gritty, hard-hitting reporting.)

I wholefartedly approve of the mass installation of sit-down toilets, especially after my experience working in Mumbai a few years ago. Since it's the most modern city in the country, there were sit-downs in restaurants and hotels; but when I went anywhere with only a squat toilet, I just held it in. I had to regularly request toilet paper from housekeeping at the hotels because most Indians use water from little faucets installed next to the toilet. The law firm where I worked had to put toilet paper in the bathroom especially for me. (It was certainly no Cottonelle or Charmin.)

But I don't think Beijing officials should replace ALL the squat toilets just because Westerners are visiting. Chinese people are used to squat toilets and they shouldn't have to completely change how they poop because we "demand" that the country conform to our every need. A compromise can be reached. For example, in the women's bathrooms at the Mumbai airport, half of the stalls contain squat toilets and half contain sitters.

With some effort, it's possible for our cultures to come together and poop in harmony -- after all, global camaraderie is what the Olympics Games are all about.

Over the years we've enjoyed several front page stories from PoopReporters who have been forced to use creativity to get clean Down There because the underpaid, polyester-clad, pimply-faced burger jockey behind the counter forgot to check the toilet paper dispenser. This problem, though it's a staple for a quality poop report, is finally being addressed on the state level. Victor Crist, a Republican state representative from Florida, has proposed a bill to force restaurants to provide patrons with a reasonable amount of toilet paper at all times.

The bill, approved on Monday as SB 836, proves two things:

1. 1. The Senate Regulated Industries Committee is composed of human beings just like us, with needs like ours. And that's kind of comforting.

2. Similar needs aside, these people have no business naming bills. This one clearly should have been approved as TP UP2. Amateurs.

Crist's goal is for SB 836 to give health inspectors more than just roaches and rats to attend to. Inspectors, he stated, "should also check the restrooms along with the kitchens to make sure that basic cleanliness necessities are in place", his phrase "basic cleanliness necessities" being a politically-correct term for toilet paper, of course. The only gray area in the bill is just what an "adequate amount" of toilet paper is, and how that amount will be determined. (Any suggestions?)

What must have occurred for this topic to come to light on a state level may forever remain up for speculation -- which is just how I like it. I'd like to think Senator Crist just wasn't satisfied with his lavishly-garnished yet meager entree after one of those ridiculously-posh state functions he's forced to attend. Maybe after hours and hours trapped in vapid, useless conversation by a horde of white-haired, prune-like society hags who look more like Romero's walking dead than society's finest, his carefully hidden and deeply repressed Inner Homeboy was in dire need of nourishment, both emotional and nutritional. After four vodka martinis, a teaspoon of green peas, a radish, and a sole filet the size of a quarter, his stomach was grumbling for something filling and exotic. "Bump this," he might have declared, "I'm heading for the Border!" Then he laid rubber in the direction of the nearest Taco Bell, where he ended up paperless, stanky, and left to fend for himself Larry Craig-style.

And then I imagine him irritated at his predicament and reduced to asking some anonymous stall neighbor for a square to help wipe off his own little Miami Sound Machine. As he drove home, he realized just how close he came to being the next poster child for the Republican Party's Foot-Tapping Bad Boy Brigade And Funky Cold Medina New Shoe Review. "Someone oughta' do something about this," he said. "Like, someone in office. Oh. Yeah..."

And there you have it.

Of course, in the scheme of things, I'm not really sure I care how this most excellent idea's time has come; it's just nice that it has. Thank you, Senator Crist. May you never be without quality two-ply or a stall door that locks!

You're probably already aware of this incredibly fucked-up story.

Pam Babcock of Ness City, Kansas, spent the last two years sitting on the toilet. She was removed a few days ago only after her boyfriend, thirty-six-year-old Kory McFarren, finally called authorities. When the cops arrived at the couple's trailer, they determined that Babcock's legs had atrophied and her skin had actually grown *around* the toilet seat. She was wearing sweatpants that were pulled down around her thighs.

According to Mr. McFarren, the woman had a phobia of leaving the bathroom due to a rough childhood. McFarren would give her food and water and changes of clothes, and ask her daily to please come out of the bathroom. Babcock would always tell him not that day, maybe the next. Well, Ms. Babcock may now spend the rest of her life sitting, as she has nerve damage that could cause her to lose use of her legs.

What boggles my mind firstly is why it took two years for the boyfriend to alert anyone. The woman is obviously in need of mental help. I am guessing that the financial and insurance situations are not ideal, but was there anyone he could have turned to, at least to point him in the direction of mental health services? She may now be wheelchair bound for life because of this.

Second: the couple's trailer does not look that big. How did the boyfriend drop a deuce? Did he sit on her lap? Did he dig a hole in the back? Did he go to Wal-Fart? WTF?

This is a sad story featuring an apparently emotionally disturbed woman, an apparent moron, and, apparently, only one bathroom.

You may recall the plight of Stephen Murmur, butt-print artist. He's the art teacher from Virginia who was fired in December 2006 after his students discovered a video of him creating his masterpieces: that is, dipping has ass in paint and sitting on the canvas. Backed by the ACLU, he sued the school district for violating his free speech. As the ACLU noted, "the paintings were produced at Murmer's own expense and during his private time away from work."

And he won. Last week the school board decided to settle with Murmer for $65,000 -- the equivalent of two years' salary as an art teacher. The board continues to maintain that they were right to fire a teacher who inspired his students to think differently about the world: "The School Board strongly believes that its decision was justified based on its core values and the disruption in the classrooms," Chairwoman Dianne E. Pettitt said. They chose to settle, she continued, only because of the cost of litigation and "the risks, however remote, that the court would reinstate the teacher to the classroom."

Despite the cruelty and ignorance of her words (these are high school kids, for god's sake. They watch South Park. They have the internet. A man painting with his genitals doesn't make the top ten corrupting influences they encounter every day), Murmer is satisfied with the settlement. In a statement emailed directly to PoopReport (and in his email to me, he specifically thanks PoopReporters for their support), he says:

"The support I received from students, colleagues, parents and communities near and far was overwhelming. Thank you so much for standing with me.

"I'm pleased with this settlement. We've succeeded in making Chesterfield public school officials accountable for their actions. My hope is that this case will cause schools to think twice before dismissing teachers over expressive activities conducted outside of the classroom. Teachers are a hardworking dedicated team of professionals.

"This settlement represents a vindication of the First Amendment. This lawsuit was filed because Americans should not be afraid to express themselves within their First Amendment rights.

"My plans are to continuing my teaching outside of Chesterfield and to continue to create art."

Editor's note: what follows is a press release. I don't normally consider myself a corporate shill, but this contest is right up this site's back alley. I fully expect a PoopReporter to win this.

Kristine from Dux Public Relations writes: "If you love poop, it's time to sing about it. Pet Butler, the company known for being #1 in the #2 business, has launched a search for that special combination: pet lovers -- and poop lovers! -- who like to sing. Pet Butler is seeking the general public's help crafting a clever jingle about dog poop. The company invites groups of three or less to sing their own version of a Pet Butler jingle for a chance to win $2,500.

"If you have a yearning to write a poop ditty of sixty seconds or less, it costs nothing to enter. Entries can be submitted on DVD, CD, or electronically. All entries must be submitted by May 15, 2008. Full contest rules and entry information can be found here.

"If singing about poop isn't your thing but seeing American Idol wannabes is, tune in to the Pet Butler website after June 6 and vote for your favorite poop jingle."

And I'll one-up their prize with one of my own: if your contest entry flashes a copy of my book, I'll give you a free PoopReport t-shirt of your choice.

In the bathroom utopia of the glorious future, pristine municipal facilities will await on every corner, their stall doors wide open to all comers and goers. This utopia will come into being only when the golden brown rule ("Doo unto others…") is held sacrosanct -- until then, as long as public toilets provide a respite from prying eyes, there will be those who use them less wholesome acts than that for which they're designed.

This is the problem confronting authorities who want to provide for their pooping populace: the more open and accessible toilets are for those who need to go, the more open and accessible they are for those with other things on their minds. Drug addicts, prostitutes, thieves, arsonists, and turd terrorists thrive in the surveillance vacuum created for the benefit of the emboweled. But most measures taken to add security come at the expense of usability.

Take the new public toilets in New York City: in the quest for an undefilable public toilet, they've created an unusable one.

The solution to this problem, as Finland's Road Administration has shown, may lie not in prevention but in deterrence. Their problem was theft and arson in highway toilets and an inability to institute appropriate surveillance. Their solution was to encourage self-policing by trading surveillance for accountability.

Pulling into a rest-stop on Finland's Highway 1, you'll find the bathroom door locked. To unlock the toilet, text "open" to such-and-such number. The company managing the service will keep a short-term record of who's been pooping, so if anything unsavory (aside from last night's Mämmi) happens, the police will have the mobile number of the culprit.

Assuming the company protects their users' privacy (a non-trivial assumption, I admit), and assuming the mobile numbers aren't passed to telemarketers selling portable toilet seat covers, I see no problem in this approach. If people know they will be identified, they'll be less likely to cause trouble.

It's obviously not a foolproof system -- stolen mobiles will be a problem, as will friendly people who hold the door open for people waiting. But there's no such thing as a foolproof system. The goal should be to find the balance between privacy and security that maximizes the period between incidents of excretory malfeasance.

100% uptime can be guaranteed only if a) privacy is completely surrendered or b) society is fully assimilated into the bathroom utopia. Finland has made a good compromise: mostly secure, and mostly private. That's a bathroom I'm willing to poop in.

When I fly, I ramp up my iPod and clamp on my headphones as soon as I sit down in my aisle seat. I don't want to talk to anybody. I just want to forget, as quickly as I can, exactly how many body parts of unknown origin are within five feet of my nose and mouth. I close my eyes and listen to the music -- Bonnie Raitt and Chip Taylor/Carrie Rodriquez have been doing it for me lately.

But on two recent flights, my castle walls have been overrun by armies from the Land of Chronic Flatulence. On these flights -- every five minutes, on average -- I was administered an olfactory wake-up call. "You're not alone," it buzzed. "Active butthole within range."

On the first occasion I made noises with each new onslaught, thinking that the person could be shamed into closing down the reactor. But when I got home, I did a little searching on the web, and discovered that there are lots of people who just can't control this problem -- and that most of them are extremely embarrassed about it. So when it happened the second time, I appealed to my compassionate side and managed to stifle my moans and "Jesus F. Christs". (Yes, friends, it can stink being a liberal.)

But today I learned that there IS hope. I'm talking not about Obamania, but about Stephen Schuster. He has developed a new product that purportedly eliminates the odor of shit and ass gas. He claims that after ten daily doses of Whiff ("the pill that cures fecal and flatulence odor"), your shit will no longer smell.

Repeat: NO MORE SMELL.

Now, I'm not sure that is an entirely a good thing. Note that we purposefully add that rotten-egg smell to natural gas and propane to serve as a warning of a lethal leak. What would happen to us in a room full of people who all could just squeeze 'em out without fear of detection? But that worry notwithstanding, please: you flying folks with flatulence. Do us all a favor and order your bottle of Whiff today. This liberal music lover would be most appreciative.

There's a ladies' room at Hi-Tide Sales, Inc., in Fort Pierce, Florida, and it shares a wall with the adjacent men's room. This past December, a female employee of the establishment -- a place that sells boat lifts -- noticed a hole in that wall while using the toilet. Maybe it caught her eye as she sat across from it, daydreaming. She might have been thinking about lunch, or the movies, or the fact that she needed a couple of new pairs of Victoria Secrets panties because the elastic on the pair she had on now was shot. Maybe it was when she tore the last remaining rubber string off the inside of its waistband that the hole caught her eye, doing so because light was shining through it.

She might have pulled up her pants and walked towards the restroom door in an attempt not to appear suspicious, but I can't say for sure. What I do know is that instead of leaving, she turned the lights off and went back towards the hole in the wall; and it was at this point that she discovered it was framing an eyeball, as reported in the Palm Beach Post.

I can only imagine the shock she felt as she stood back up and exited the restroom. She must have been confused at first. Then, as the realization that someone had been watching her go to the bathroom sank in, she might have experienced more than one emotion: disbelief, embarrassment, surprise, anger, or even shame. She might have started to cry. I don't know; the article didn't specify. However, it did specify that a male co-worker noticed she was upset and asked her if she was alright. She had him wait outside the men's room with her to see who came out.

When Jake Christopher Velardo, another employee at the Hi-Tide Sales exited the restroom in front of both her and her co-worker friend, she notified her supervisor of what had happened. He questioned the twenty year-old suspected in the event, but Velardo denied any wrongdoing. He was fired the same day.

Velardo turned himself in last week due to a warrant issued for his arrest in December on the charges of voyeurism. He was released the same day on $15,000 bail.

Investigators found the hole Velardo used to spy on his co-worker to be covered by a guard rail one might find in a basic public handicrapper. In order to look through it, Velardo had to remove the rail, which was held in place by single screw. This fact certainly seems to negate any claims one might have that he acted out of passing curiosity. It also seems to negate any claims one might have that he has a passing understanding of the Plight of the Shameful Shitter.

Over the past six year, this site has been routinely reminded through stories, comments, and forum posts that the world is full of Shameful Shitters -- people who are not comfortable voiding their bowels in the presence of others or in strange bathrooms. We've heard from someone as recently as this week who can't even take a crap outside his own home. We've even read about the wonders of the Japanese toilet and how one of the features is often a button that, when pressed, plays the sounds of a flushing toilet to mask the noises made when you doody.

Someone who doesn't mind crapping public, might ask why this is, what the big deal is about being in their workplace restroom and feeling comfortable when making Yellow or Brown. When I hear of stories like this young woman's, I know one of the reasons why some Shameful Shitters don't experience that freedom; it's because there are people like Jake Velardo on the other side of the wall. They threaten our sense of security and cause us to question just how truly intact our privacy is while in a position of true vulnerability. He represents a real-life manifestation of a familiar mystery movie prop, the picture on the wall with the eyes cut out that the bad guy uses to spy on you, the unsuspecting dope who was invited to dinner. And to the poor, beleaguered Shameful Shitter, that is enough to make experiencing the joy of foreign-stall pooping an impossibility.

Maybe that female employee scrutinizes the walls as like never before when deciding to enter a public restroom stall and still feels as if she's being watched; maybe she never completely takes her eyes away from the mirror while washing her hands afterwards either. Maybe she doesn't even use the restroom at her workplace, and instead goes elsewhere. It's possible that she sees public restrooms in a more sinister light than before, never to again sit down and pee with the same nonchalance as she once did. If this is true, then it is indeed a shame, because enjoying an unhindered, unmolested potty break is a right we all deserve, a right no one should take from us through their own invasive illegal behavior.

Intentional farting has now been classified as a "detention offense" in Maine.

At the Camden-Rockport Middle School, a group of eighth-grade boys have apparently made a game of seeing who can expel the loudest and grossest farts. Because of this, as the eighth grade's informal newspaper The Fire Cracker has reported, a natural human function has for the first time been outlawed and penalized.

Not so, says principal Maria Libby. She insists that there is no new rule about farting as such, but rather an increased enforcement of an already existing rule about disruptive behavior. "It's not a new policy, but farting can be considered a disruption."

(Note: as a teacher, I can testify to the hilarity and disruptive effect of a fart in class. The lady has a point.)

A group of seventh-graders, interviewed after school last Friday, said the eighth-graders' behavior is well known. One was quoted as saying, "They would do it in science class and in other places. It's a natural occurrence, and we all do it sixteen times a day." The student couldn't remember where he obtained that information.

Perhaps it's a tempest in a teapot (or a little gas in a confined space), but it still seems funny to me. I can well support the thesis that farting, intentional or not, can disrupt class; and if I thought the perpetrator was doing it deliberately, even I could think kindly about a sentence of detention.

When I hear the words "sewer", "monster", and "Maine", what comes to mind is a demonic alien clown with silver eyes and fangs. Stephen King's It -- a novel about a sewer-dwelling specter who rips a little boy's arm off in the first thirty pages of the book -- redefined how I consider sewer grates. (The clowns never had a chance. I hate clowns.) But now there's a new monster haunting Maine's sewers.

This one is in Lewiston, not Bangor, and it's not a giant shape-shifting spiderthing with deadlights on its abdomen. No, it's a sixty foot-long behemoth wreaking havoc on the town above it -- and it's composed of mop heads, grease, rags, and dough.

The trouble started on January eleventh. A major sewer line under Main Street -- a twelve-inch pipe -- became clogged with "a doughy substance". Every attempt made by city workers to unplug the line with snakes and high pressure water hoses failed; and when they removed parts of the clog, it appeared to grow back. City officials were stumped as to how to solve their problem. Public Service decided that the only way to completely eradicate the mess was to replace the line (which is already old) -- at a cost of between $40,000 and $60,000.

There are six businesses on the block: an eye clinic, a church, a boutique, a print shop, something called PEG Associates, and Sam's Italian Foods, an Italian eatery.

Public Service Director Kevin Gagne was reported as saying the blockage seemed to grow back as they pulled it out from where it began -- in front of Sam's. And of all the businesses mentioned, Sam's is the one place where you're likely to find dough (from pizzas, bread, and submarine rolls), kitchen rags, mops, and, of course, grease.

To keep things flowing, so to speak, the city has been pumping out the backed-up sewage three times a day. This has allowed all six businesses to stay open and the line to remain unrepaired until the city accepts a contractor's bid. In the meantime, the general manager of Sam's, Michael Marchus, came forward to give his take on the clog.

Marchus says that the materials from his restaurant weren't responsible for the clog -- rather, a collapse was. He says his waste just backed up afterwards. Public Service Director Gagne, on the other hand, says that a lack of dirt in the material suggests that the line collapse was not initial, but that it followed the doughy mess's accumulation. And what quantity of dirt and stone the city has pulled out of the line isn't nearly as much as they've recovered in the past when dealing with a collapse that causes a clog. To them, it seems likely that the blockage occurred first.

"We won't know for sure what's underground and what caused it," says Gagne, "until we've dug it up."

I'd watch out for clowns.

The American Civil Liberties Union has upped the ante on the Larry Craig affair by suggesting that people who have sex in closed restroom stalls can expect a certain level of privacy.

Larry Craig, as you know, has changed his mind following his October guilty plea after being accused of soliciting sex from an undercover police officer. Now it seems he finally has someone in his corner besides various internet bloggers (many of whom are from the gay and lesbian community, interestingly enough). Even though Craig, like many conservative politicians, has thumbed his nose at the ACLU, the group is arguing his side.

The ACLU's argument centers on the fact that the government admitted that Craig was charged with interference with privacy. When Craig pleaded guilty to this, he in fact pleaded guilty to crossing a border that should not be crossed in reasonable situations -- a border that someone should respect and expect to be respected by other members of society -- for the purpose of initiating sex in a public place.

In the eyes of the ACLU, this is a paradoxical stance held by the government. If a restroom stall is a private area, then what people intend to do in it is none of the law's business. After all, it's illegal for law enforcement to place video surveillance in public restroom stalls, isn't it?

Here's a portion of the twelve-page brief the ACLU filed earlier this month.

"Sex is a constitutionally protected liberty interest. Thus, the government may make sex a crime only where it has a constitutionally sufficient justification for doing so. The government does not have a constitutionally sufficient justification for making private sex a crime. It follows that an invitation to have private sex is constitutionally protected and may not be made a crime. This is so even where the proposition occurs in a public place, whether in a bar or in a restroom."

The ACLU is arguing that if Craig was arrested because his alleged proposition was a crime, then any sexual proposition would be also a crime, regardless of location.

The topic is being hotly debated many places on the net, especially pro- and anti-civil liberties forums and blogs. The question that keeps on surfacing: just what WAS his crime? But parents are up in arms about what they consider to be the ridiculous nature of the ACLU's stance on public sex, just as liberals were upset about Craig swimming in a sea of seeming homophobic intentions when he defended his own "stance" months before. Which means it's shaping up to be a much more interesting case that I expected it to be last fall.

As of yet, Craig has not resigned as promised, and has decided to finish his term as an Idaho senator.

What's going on beyond our little brown corner of the Internet? Well, first of all, I'm not the only PoopReporter in India! KesAFloyd writes: "I've moved to India for four months, doing research for my university. I've started a blog as an extended poop report.

Zach says: "I wrote a humorous (I hope it was, at least) column for The Edge newspaper in Hays, Kansas, about Shitbegone and the toilet paper industry." Meanwhile, PoopReport gets a shout-out in the New York Press.

I don't know who sent me this picture, but it's funny:

Arnold has, of course, sent in some links. Thanks to him, we've got the cruelty of Joanne Fabrics. 59 toilet seats from around the world. The best toilet inventions. The strangest toilets from around the world. How to stop farting. The Idaho phantom pooper. (Chris???) A giant toilet soapbox derby. And pooping while running.

Frank2401 has put together the ultimate housewarming gift.

Here's Time magazine talking about the state of public toilets in the US. Meanwhile, Marla from Water 1st tells us that sanitation has been voted the top medical advance in the last 150 years.

Interested in some bathroom decor? Crapola found a SCAAAARY toilet seat. In China, sex + toilet = awkward! In national parks, outhouses are disappearing. In Japan, the bathroom is in the car. In Korea, the bathroom IS the decor.

Barry writes: "I have just read one of the funniest books on the history of poop. It is called "DEJA POO: Men's Preoccupations That Drive Women Insane." It even has a website that gives an hilarious exam after you finish the book and you can get a diploma from Poopston University. Look."

Jon writes: "On YouTube, once upon a time, I had developed my own show, entitled PooTube. It ran for five episodes before I had to halt the project due to a number of discouraging factors, perhaps the most crippling of which was the fact that viewers didn't quite seem able to wrap their minds around the concept. A "smart" albeit surreal program about Poo (with a number of other diversions thrown in for good measure) was about as embraced as by Youtube viewers as the substance in question itself. In any case, after perusing your site for a mere five minutes I felt compelled to send you the link, thinking you might find some entertainment in it. Thanks for keeping up the fight."

Before I left the US, I spotted this dusty window display in a Brooklyn storefront:

This is a really clever invention: a thermochromatic toilet seat that changes color if it's still warm from the last ass that sat on it.

Matt tells us about a woman who packed too much fudge. Larfus sends in the Sprinkle Brigade. Doug has recorded a song about poop. He calls it Sulphur. And why are there so many drop-in-the-toilet anti-stench products all of a sudden? We've seen Just a Drop and Poo Pourri, and now... Poof Drops???

Logjam says: "A friend emailed me this photo. Not sure where he found it, but a good guess is that the photo was taken in a German forest or park. Without the words, I might have thought that they were forbidding sodomy with under-aged trees."

Danny Pfeiffer wants your help: "I'm launching a new poo survey to gather stats about pooping behavior." And speaking of which, here are some videos: men's room etiquette. From Larfus, some competition for Justin Timberlake. Some video of that toilet soapbox derby. Here's the truth about cow poop. And Howleykook says: "I guess "Just Say No" wasn't holding any water in Sweden. Check out one of their TV commercials featuring a self cleaning toilet. My wife's ass puckered up nice and tight when I showed her this little ditty. I know what she's getting for Christmas."

Jerri says: "The new show from DIY Network is called Under Construction and follows two Brooklyn contractors as they build, demolish, and renovate projects all over NYC. (It airs Tuesdays at 9pm as part of DIY's bigger Network lineup "Nailed at 9"). But we've got some footage of them trying to work on a Park Slope property that turns out to be a virtual warehouse for dog poop (at least I hope it's dog!)

Robocrap13 writes: Look at Papertoilet.com. It's a weird site with a roll of white T.P. on a black background. You use your mouse to un-roll and re-roll the paper. That's all it does! Thought you might find it amusing."

And finally, Matt points out that this fine gentleman is stealing stories from PoopReport. I'd get upset, but... well, look at his pathetic little site. Poor guy needs all the help he can get.

David Bown of Sydney, Australia, has been working on renovations for the past couple of years to get his home "just the way he liked it". Tweaking broken tiles and floorboards now seems small in the scheme of things, however, because this week his house has bigger problems. How big? Bus big. At 7:30 AM on January 7th, he awoke to the sounds of screaming just as a driverless bus drove into the front of his home, coming to a stop about a foot away from where he'd been napping in the front room.

Why is this on PoopReport? Because at the time of the accident, the driver was outside of the bus, taking a pee. An employee of Northland Coach and Travel, the driver had stepped away for "a very short period of time while he went to answer a call of nature". As he did, the bus began to roll. It rolled across a footpath, two lanes of traffic, and then a second footpath before crashing into Bown's house.

Bown is waiting for the insurance assessor to find out whether bulldozing and starting over will be the best option, as the damage may irreparable. The residence was moved in its entirety, which may have ruined its connection to the foundation. But when Bown expressed *sympathy* for the driver instead of outrage, he showed a magnanimous nature that many people might not have been able to muster. "I mean, it's not his fault," Bown said. "It's not something you strive to do."

Inspectors at the scene have not reported finding anything wrong with the brake system, which was the driver's claim, so whether fault is assigned to the driver remains to be seen. There article doesn't mention whether he shut the engine off or merely put the emergency brake on and left it running, which would surely be protocol.

Naturally curious, I called Pierce Country Transit this morning and spoke to "Jerry" about what a city bus company consider safe bus operations. He said that their strict standard is for drivers to not only shut the bus off, should the need for a bathroom break arise, but also to lock the cab and sometimes even use what he called wheel chalks if the bus is parked on an incline. "At no time is the bus to remain running or in a state of possible movement without a driver," he reassured me. Well, now I see why!

As you can see, the unnamed driver appears sheepish and in a state of disbelief. One can only wonder what was going through his head at the time (not to mention his bladder). Imagine coming home from a day of work to tell the wife, "I ruined a man's home today because I had to pee."

Last week, New York City unveiled the first of twenty futuristic new public toilets intended to give desperate citizens a choice beyond waddling to the nearest Starbucks or crouching behind the nearest trashcan. The city is relying on state-of-the-art technology to avoid the crack addicts, prostitutes, and green puddles of god-knows-what that have plagued the public toilets of New York City's past: these toilets are self-cleaning and designed to operate safely and sanitarily without a human attendant.

But while I'm proud of the city for finally considering its citizens' most basic needs, it looks like their quest for automation has detracted from what should have been their goal: building toilets people would actually want to use.

From the New York Times review of the facility: "When the green light marked ‘vacant' is lit, 25 cents -- coins only, no bills -- starts the visit. What follows is possibly the longest and most awkward 20 to 30 seconds of a person's day. The door slips open like an elevator, but then it stays open, to accommodate those who need extra time getting in. Meanwhile, men and women in suits walk past. It is very difficult to look inconspicuous in a bathroom on a sidewalk in New York with the door open. There is just nothing to do but stand there."

Let's consider the user of a New York City street toilet. A street toilet is by definition a toilet of last resort, used only by users who don't have time to make it anywhere nicer. And as we all know, bowels in a state of panic are notorious for discharging when the eyes spot a toilet -- not necessarily when the butt actually sits on it. Imagine the desperate user who digs out his quarter, opens the door, dashes inside, and then has to make eye-contact with passers-by for thirty seconds before he can even loosen his belt.

"The toilet itself {is} an imposing, metal, cold-looking receptacle in the corner ... There is no seat to raise or lower, just the wide rim of the bowl, with covers made of tissue available in a dispenser to the side."

A cold toilet seat? A squared toilet seat? A seatless toilet seat??? No one will want to sit on this thing. American butts prefer porcelain horseshoes. This unfriendly, unfamiliar, sure-to-be-uncomfortable steel apparatus will drive people to hover instead of sit -- which will lead to a lot of spray-painting.

"{The black button} dispenses toilet paper. One will quickly familiarize oneself with that button, because the designers have deigned a little 16-inch strip the standard helping of paper. A word to the wise: There is a maximum of just three helpings."

Sixteen inches = four squares. Again, consider the user. He's only using this toilet because he's minutes from eruption. Eruption implies diarrhea. And diarrhea implies the need for a whole lot more than twelve squares of toilet paper.

"The floor is rubber and, more strikingly, very wet ... {the seat} too, is quite damp, for perfectly good reasons: when the visitor steps out, the door shuts again, but the "occupied" light stays lit. Strange hisses and spraying sounds come from within -- did someone slip past? No, actually, the room is cleaning itself. A robotic arm swings out over the toilet bowl and hits it with disinfectant, while similar jets spray across the sink and the floor. Then, dryers fan hot air over everything."

It's great that it's cleaned after every use. But you don't assume a wet floor or wet seat is due to cleaning -- you assume it's due to urine, and you guard your pants cuffs and butt cheeks accordingly.

"After 90 seconds of cleaning, the green light outside comes back on."

Let's again consider the users of this toilet. While our first hypothetical user has been resolving his situation, imagine a second who has been outside doing the waiting dance. The door finally opens and the second user's sphincter slackens in anticipation; but when the door slams shut, will the second user's sphincter do the same?

I believe that public conveniences are the mark of a civilized society, which makes me feel guilty to criticize New York's long-overdue effort to this ideal. But this toilet was not designed with users in mind. Instead, with its metal seat, its twelve-square paper limit, its thirty-second open-door policy, it was designed primarily to maximize the time between maintenance visits. Which results in a facility that actually works against the very people who need it most.

The primary goal should have been to give users a place they'd want to poop; the form of the facility should have followed this function. Based on the Times' review, if I'm stuck short anywhere near Madison and 23rd, even if I've got a quarter in my pocket, I'm going to duckwalk it to the Starbucks a few blocks away.

Two Sundays ago, Jennifer Castellano took an Air Tran flight from West Palm Beach to Boston. Shortly after being seated, Ms. Castellano claims she noticed that her pants were soaking wet. "I then realized I was saturated in urine from the smell," she claimed. Here's what really ticks me off about this story: the flight crew was aware the seat had been peed in, yet they allowed her to sit in it anyway.

Ms. Castellano complained about the wetness to a flight attendant. Only after complaining was she told that a man from the previous flight had peed his pants in that very seat. She removed her urine-soaked clothes in the plane's restroom and spent the rest of the flight wrapped in an airline blanket in another seat, refusing to sit in the soiled one, stating later: "I'm not sitting on a three hours flight soaked in someone else's urine. That is absolutely disgusting."

To make matters worse, the airline wouldn't help Castellano retrieve any of her clothes once they arrived in Boston, telling her that it was a federal violation for a flight attendant to retrieve a passenger's luggage. So this poor woman had to walk through an airport terminal with a blanket wrapped around her butt until she got to the baggage claim area and could open her suitcase. After all, it's not like the airline offer a clothing voucher, either.

In fact, Ms. Castellano was refused any type of consideration, period. From knowingly allowing her to sit in someone else's bodily waste to not even allowing a fellow passenger retrieve her luggage (the federal regulations don't mention other passengers), this airline completely dropped the ball.

A representative from Air Tran says they will refund Ms. Castellano the cost of her ticket and "the cost of the damaged clothing". I think they should also consider offering her what a person in a situation as disgusting as this deserves most: a genuine apology for the insult committed against her dignity and rights as a paying customer and human being.

The hell with urine -- this airline is just plain shitty.

Coll Bell donned his thinking cap one day and hatched a brilliant idea: a composting toilet that houses a colony of Tiger worms (little buggers that don't need to be told twice to "eat my shit") in its base. But before he could proceed with his business plan, the Kiwi inventor of The Wormorator had to wiggle through an unusual hurdle of his own: he was ordered by the Auckland Regional Council to verify that his Tiger worms not only were not suffering psychological damage in their den of shiniquity, but that they were "happy" being there. (It's nice to know that all the world's crazies haven't yet moved to California.)

Bell managed to find a worm expert, Patricia Naidu, who spent some quality time with the worms in their ultra-rich environs. (I couldn't help but imagine Particia as the perky Karen Allen with Harrison Ford among the snakes in the Well of Souls.) Patricia has gone on record saying that the worms indeed did appear "happy" with their new lot in life -- this based primarily on the fact that they were healthy and breeding with gusto.

Being on the toilet is one of the bright spots of my day. But now I really want one of these worm toilets. I'd be even happier taking a shit knowing that I was bringing happiness to so many others.

If you're among the handful of people who has 1) money to burn, 2) low self-esteem, and 3) an unfulfilled desire to turn your lower tract into Fort Knox, then Tobias Wong and Ju$t Another Rich Kid has just the thing for you. It's the Gold Pill: a $425-capsule coated in and filled with 24-karat gold designed to "increase your self-worth" upon ingestion.

More importantly, the pill touts the added benefit of injecting some glitz into your shits. Yes, it garnishes your keister meats with flakes of precious metal.

I, for one, say what better way to flaunt your immense wealth and grandiosity than by bejeweling your stool? Tricking out your turds? Sending the Cosbys off to the pool with some fresh new grills? Hell, you could parlay your newfound ability to spin shit into gold into cool nicknames, like Dumpelstiltskin, Goldsphincter, or The Man with the Golden Anus.

Sure, there will be naysayers -- lesser beings with inferior, non-ornamented bowel movements -- who'll say that the Gold Pill is an obscene, impractical way to flush good money down the toilet. They may even brand you with a more derisive nickname. Like The Douche Who Lays the Golden Eggs.

Pay them no heed, good citizen. They'll never bask in the throes of megalomania as grizzled prospectors stake claims around their septic tanks, panning their nuggets for nuggets. They'll never stare in awe and wonder at a sparkling ten-incher that twinkles in the bowl like Ursa Major on a moonless night. And there's something else we'll know that they never will: pinching a Gold Pill bullion loaf is like calling the neighbor's obnoxious four-year-old a "dickhead" -- it may not accomplish much, but it sure makes you feel better inside.

For those of you who, like me, have been wondering if Americans still have the right to tell our toilets what we truly think, the legal system has spoken. In the words of District Judge Terrence Gallagher: while the plaintiff Dawn Herb's language "may be considered by some to be offensive, vulgar and imprudent", it is "protected speech pursuant to the First Amendment".

So there you have it. Cuss out that fucking overflowing toilet to your hearts content. And if ANYONE has the temerity to try to tell you to keep it down, just tell 'em to fuck off. God Bless America!!

As you can see, I am glad about this ruling. There is far too much political correctness in this country; by taking the "color" out of our lives, we are left only with the dingy gray. And I do NOT look good in gray.

Oh, by the way -- didn't like my original report or this follow-up? In the immortal (and legal) words of Dawn Herb: "Fuck off."

Or, if you prefer, "Get me the fucking mop."

The story was reported nationally in various news-of-the-weird columns. "In October, a police officer in Scranton, Pennsylvania, charged Dawn Herb with disorderly conduct after he passed her home and heard her, through an open window, cussing her toilet, which at the time was overflowing and leaking into the kitchen. Herb, and the American Civil Liberties Union, were incredulous."

Big Brother is watching! One off-duty police officer in Scranton reported this dear lady for obscenities when his child came to him to tell him about yelling she had heard a couple of doors down the street. Seems Dawn was dealing with a clogged toilet, and as a red blooded American Citizen, was simultaneously exercising her First Amendment right to cuss the damn thing out as she plunged furiously to try to avoid the inevitable.

Ms. Herb is charged with disorderly conduct and faces up to ninety days in prison and a $300 fine. A few days ago, she had her day in court, entering a plea of not guilty. Here's how the Scranton Times-Tribune presents the facts.

"Patrolman [Gerald] Tallo has maintained that Ms. Herb was creating a public disturbance, according to a police report. He alleges she was yelling and cursing, using the ‘f-word' so loud in her residence that she could be heard throughout the neighborhood. Also, he claims that Patrolman Gilman asked Ms. Herb to ‘watch her mouth, that there were young children in the neighborhood.' This response, Patrolman Tallo said, was met by Ms. Herb saying ‘f--- you.'

"Ms. Herb's version differs from that of the police. She said her neighbor told her to ‘Shut the f--- up,' and her response was, ‘Mind your own business.'"

What a woman! Just once, *I* want to tell an off-duty police officer to "shut the fuck up and mind your own business!"

The trial began on Monday. Some highlights, as reported by the Times-Tribune:

"After going outside, the off-duty patrolman said he heard someone yell, ‘Are you (expletive) retarded? Get me the (expletive) mop.' Patrolman Gilman said he then yelled, ‘Watch your mouth,' because there were children in the neighborhood, to which the person replied ‘(Expletive) off.'"

"ACLU attorney Barry Dyller argued that foul language, although not in the best taste, is protected by the Constitution. ‘The case law is very clear,' told Judge Gallagher. ‘This is not behavior that you can be arrested for ... even if it is uncivil, annoying or irritating.'"

Judge Gallagher is expected to make a ruling in a few days.

The Pennsylvania Department of Revenue considers toilet paper a necessity. Therefore, it is not taxed. In fact, it's against the law for a licensed vendor in this country to tax items that their state's Department of Revenue says are not to be taxed. In Pennsylvania, the penalty for improper taxation is one hundred dollars or the amount of the damages, whichever is greater, according to Pennsylvania's Unfair Trade Practices and Consumer Protection Law.

This is why Mary Bach successfully sued K-Mart for taxing her toilet paper.

In October, the Murrysville woman went to court and submitted her sales receipts as evidence. According to these receipts, the store had twice taxed her twenty-eight cents for the purchase of a twelve-pack roll of toilet paper. After she brought it to K-Mart's attention, the chain immediately offered to settle out of court. But she refused to accept.

That's because, according to Ms. Bach, the settlement required that she sign a confidentiality agreement stating that she would not discuss the case or its particulars. Her goal was not to recover her twenty-eight cents, but to encourage others to be aware of what is taxable and what is not, and to make sure they aren't taken advantage of while shopping this holiday season.

K-Mart says it will not appeal the decision. Kim Freely, a spokeswoman for the company, stated "We don't want to fight with our customers... we apologize for the inconvenience and the problem is being corrected."

The article didn't say whether every K-Mart shopper had been taxed for toilet paper; but, seeing as how store register systems are programmed with UPC updates weekly, I can't imagine Ms. Bach was the only one. Whether or not others come forward remains to be seen, but it wouldn't surprise me if more consumers checked their old receipts after reading about this incident. I know if I'd been unfairly taxed for toilet paper -- and that I could get one hundred dollars for it -- I would take the money. One hundred dollars sounds pretty good.

But then again, maybe I'd just ask to be reimbursed the extra tax and then see if I could get some free popcorn. I like popcorn.

Fear not, sufferers of C. diff: your antibiotic-resisting, potentially crippling-death-by-diarrhea superbug can be treated!

Here's the rub -- you need a close relative (preferably one who does not have an insatiable fondness for six-cheese Hot Pockets) to save several days worth of his or her excrement for your doctor, who will in turn shoehorn your relative's liquefied colon chum into your tortured shitlocker for an overnight stay. It's a mud transfusion that pits your relative's healthy stool bacteria against the infectious bacteria for what promises to be an epic, watery naval battle in your intestinal tract!

"Though C. difficile can be kept in check by good bacteria in the bowel," says the CBC, "problems can arise when the superbug is treated by antibiotics such as vancomycin. The antibiotics sometimes wipe out the good bacteria but fail to completely kill the C. difficile — leaving enough of it that it later flourishes."

"Fecal transplants have become the first-line treatment for chronic recurrent C. difficile in Scandinavia. As well, more and more doctors are using it in the United States. But only a handful of doctors in Canada are willing to undertake the unpleasant procedure which involves taking a healthy person's fecal matter and transplanting it into a person infected with C. difficile."

While this procedure kinda gives "runs in the family" a whole new meaning", it does boast a 90% success rate. So if someone close to you is suffering from this debilitating affliction, give the gift of life: become a grogan donor today.

Shouldn't that be IN the little toilet instead of next to it?

Restaurateur Wang Tzi-wei has figured out what PoopReporters have known for years: toilets are funny. But he's come to a conclusion we never imagined: they don't have to stay in the bathroom to be part of a successful and unique dining experience.

In 2004, Tzi-wei took a gamble and opened the Modern Toilet diner in Taipei, Taiwan. This toilet-themed restaurant, the first of twelve to be opened so far, broke new ground in the area of theme eateries. In a city where one can find restaurants with interiors resembling jailhouses and hospitals, Tzi-wei didn't find the concept of a toilet theme too farfetched. Tzi-wei credits the idea for the chain to a Japanese cartoon featuring restaurant-based restrooms and toilets.

At the Modern Toilet diner, every seat is a toilet. The tables are tubs or large sinks covered with plexiglass. And instead of conventional cloth or paper napkins, a customer will find toilet rolls hung nearby. WC signs designating different gender selections have replaced what one might generally expect to see as conventional wall art. The food is served in miniature plastic toilet bowl and often resembles poo; and if you watch this video link, you'll see a gentleman sipping a drink from a straw stuck in what looks like a men's travel urinal.

Since toilets and bathtubs are the only dishes you'll find here, it looks like potty mouth is unavoidable.

The successful chain relies mostly on a youthful demographic -- specifically students from three major learning centers located nearby. And it shows no signs of losing their favor. In fact, Tzi-wei has not ruled out expanding, as it seems the eateries are also drawing a marginal percentage of the more mature crowd as well.

Mr. Whipple clearly had a toilet paper fetish. He could not keep his hands off the stuff. He caressed it. He stroked it. He massaged it. He had a wicked gleam in his eyes. The sort an older man has when he is giving candy to a little girl.

He spawned an entire generation of toilet paper squeezers. He continued to make toilet paper seem like a toy. An unmentionable toy. His antics led directly to the creation of the 'bath tissue' concept, and the notion that people don't poop or wipe. They just get in the bathtub and play with tissue, making love to it with their hands.

And now, he is elsewhere claiming that squeezing toilet paper is like squeezing clouds. He has taken his agenda to the heavens.

Maggie May, have I told you lately that tonight's the night... I'm going to put dog crap under your pillow...

Some guys have all the luck. Some guys are so ingrained into our pop culture that they can trade in supermodel wives like overdue library books and, without causing a ripple on the surface of our pop culture's mainstream, admit to putting dog poop under their child's pillow.

Rod Stewart's daughter Kimberly recently has revealed that her aging rock star father has a rather bizarre way of teaching her to pick up after herself (and her pet). She recently stated that if she failed to pick up after her dog, Rod would "hide it in his daughter's bed to teach her a lesson." The same went for used dishes and cups she left laying around the house. She often found dirty plates and cups placed under her comforter. And the dog poop? Snuggled safely in a napkin and tucked in for the night -- under her pillow. On her bed. Where she slept.

Kimberly has taken after her mother, former model Alana Collins, and is now a model herself -- and apparently a squeaky clean one. Claims the younger Stewart: "I'm tough now. I expect people to be clean, super-tidy, and totally respectful, and that's a good thing."

That sounds like a good plan on the surface. But if one digs deeper into that comment, it begins to sound a little bit like intolerance. There is a difference between commanding respect from others and judging them by their personal habits. I have a few friends who are slobs. It doesn't affect my life one bit. But then again, my father didn't put dog shit under my pillow.

I don't think Rod Stewart understands the meaning of the word respect, especially when it comes to women. He recycles them once they get past their wrinkle-free expiration dates -- which is something of a mystery, considering that every passing year sees him closer and closer resembling a mask of melting Play-Doh that has been peppered with chocolate chips and topped off with a poorly-peroxided hedgehog.

Ms. Stewart markets a successful line of shoes. Whether or not she would also employ turd terrorism as a manner of discipline with any children of her own in the future was not addressed.

"There better not be any shite on the bottom of these Gallies, love, or you know where it'll end up..."