Update: Assault on Precinct Poo-Poo Land

The public braced themselves for more lavatorial hardship this week, with toilet paper rations brutally slashed, as the bitter conflict now being known as The Bog Standards War, looked set to rage into its second week.

Citizens have been advised to 'clench and bear it', with official government advice advising 'shelving one's poo until it sets to the consistency of partly baked clay, and glides out', in other words incubating, as Glaxo SmithKline Beecham boffins dub it, 'a self cleaning turd'.

This Just In:

THE AMERICAN EMANCIPATION BOWEL EVACUATION PROCLAMATION OF SHITSDEPENDENCE
from our US Feminine Hygiene correspondent


"We all must accept some acts, regardless of their tendencies to cause revolt, as basic human needs. We shan't be made to feel ashamed of that which we cannot control. I believe it should be an equal right bestowed unto all men (not women obviously) the right to relax on a toilet for however long need be and take a giant smelly shit. The modern world is so inundated with stresses and frustrations, that it is absolutely essential we each have those few minutes to ourselves to revel in the pleasure of relieving ones bowels.

But here today, we have been made to feel ashamed! We cower over the toilet, trembling as we try desperately to squeeze one out emitting no sound nor odor. Begging the stank out of our shit. Cursing the turd that falls with a loud plop. Heaven forbid we hear that dreaded knock on the door signifying the arrival of the next in line. Paranoia sets in as we imagine that person's look of disgust when they enter the toilet after us. We can already hear the rumors spreading far and wide of the lethal fumes only we could have been responsible for. And why? Because one person was born with a german shepherd's sense of smell and was unlucky enough to have a desk positioned directly downwind from the toilet?

Well, if I weren't a woman, and I did actually poo, I would take a stand. I would poo proudly and stankily. And heaven help me I would not spray."

The War On Stinkers

I'm living under a regime with a zero-tolerance approach to odour. The powers that be are determined to eradicate natural human smells via a shock and awe campaign utilising all the firepower Glade and Haze have on offer. The toilet bristles with the latest technology. The war on stinkers is in full effect.

There's two air fresheners in the toilet, one aerosol Glade with the fragrance of Clean Linen, one pump action pistol grip dispersing a fine Summer Meadow mist with each squeeze of the trigger. A Blue Loo anti-shit-scent bleach mine is strapped under the toilet seat, and a Haze deodorant block sits on top of the cistern. As you enter or exit the bathroom, a motion-sensor activated air freshener pumps Fragrant Zen covering fire in your direction. This totalitarian system will eradicate OdourCrimes before they've even happened.

Why must some people insist on the mist? This obsession with filling the air we breathe with the cloying chemical sweetness of something developed in a Glaxo Smithkline Beecham laboratory is beyond me. People have a scent. We're animals, after all. What's so much more pleasant about Glade-mixed-with-shit than just plain old shit? And how are these products tested - have the manufacturers developed fake shit-balm for the labs and focus groups? Or do they use actual feces?

Perhaps I don't understand the need to coat the air with fake Orange Blossom because I didn't grow up with laser-guided air fresheners maceing me in the face every five yards. I grew up with a Dad who proudly announced his business, loudly declaring a five-mile and 45 minute exclusion zone around the family toilet whenever he laid his paternal cables. The adjective 'Dad' still persists in my family as a means to describe a particularly heavily lingering bouquet, and a 'Dad Shit' the highest fecal accolade.