For years, a question has troubled the minds of doctors nationwide.
It’s kept many a medical researcher tossing and turning in tumult, night after night. Some have taken the quandary to their graves, others have been driven to madness in their fruitless, quixotic quest to uncover the truth.
Now, as 2014 comes to a close, the answer has been discovered, and I’m pleased to share with you the findings of my massive inquiry into the most important medical question of our time:
Yes, that’s right. I went on a cross-country tour of the United States to determine whether the fecal matter of my fellow countrymen (and women!) was consistent across the board or whether significant regional differences proved too great to overcome.
Here’s what I found, broken down by geographic area:
The Northeast
I began my journey in my beloved hometown, Stamford, Connecticut, which I felt best represented the region as a whole. Situated in the New York metropolitan area while maintaining a proud New England heritage, Stamford exemplifies the ethnic diversity, bustling commercial activity, and hard-work ethic the Northeast has come to embody in American folklore.
I examined the droppings of five anonymous Stamford natives and found some common themes: they were all of the solid, “loggy” variety, clearly the result of hard straining. In addition, they were quite rank in stench, almost as if the poops themselves wanted me to know they were there.
In summation, Northeasterners’ B.M.s are proud, loud individuals – the product of hard work from stressful environments, much like the people who produced them.
The South
After sticking my nose into the rectal affairs of my fellow Northeasterners, I hopped in my trusty 1987 Chevrolet Nova (which, ironically, most people I know refer to as a ‘piece of sh*t”) and headed for Collierville, Tenn., a Memphis suburb which I had heard produces some of the most notable human refuse the American South has to offer.
I met with white-suited, bolo-tied James-Jim “Bob-Tom” Hatt-Field. We enjoyed a basket of fried chicken, hush puppies, and moon pie, all Southern favorites sure to produce a turd of sub-Mason Dixon perfection.
“You know, in antebellum times, it used to be a tradition among land owners to sniff each other’s rear ends when attending social functions”, said Bob-Tom, who encouraged me to bend over and “waft his corn pone”. I politely declined, noting to myself that some people from the region sure liked to hang on to their fair share of antiquated, bizarre, and frankly stupid beliefs.
Shortly after finishing his meal, Bob-Tom excused himself to his outhouse, producing a greasy, diffuse pile of dung indicative of the malnutritious, fat-filled meal he had consumed not long before. I did not spend long examining the sample as flies had begun to swarm the pot and I was struck with a sudden, strong urge to vomit.
The Midwest
Though the Midwest, like the South, is a huge geographical area with many unique cultural pockets, I decided on Rochester, Minn., home of the world-renowned Mayo Clinic. Here, I would study the night soil of the region with Dr. Wendy Wendersonn, gastroenterologist and fellow appreciator of all things crap.
Greeting me with the politeness that Minnesotans are famous for, Dr. Wendersonn began, “You know, if there’s one thing we Midwesterners have in common, it’s that we all like to work together and collaborate on things. There’s an old saying my Swedish ancestors were fond of – ‘Don’t think you as an individual are better than us as a group’ – which is actually a paraphrasing of the
Law of Jante, a law code that appears in an Aksel Sandemose novel which was meant to represent Scandinavians’ attitudes towards individual achievement”.
“So, keeping that in mind, the sample I have for you today was produced not by one person but by a group: the Gnuddsson Farm of Bemidji, Minnesota, who stage a ‘s**t-in’ once a year on St. Olaf’s Day to commemorate their heritage”.
We looked at the sample, which, in stark contrast to the hardscrabble, individual logs my friends form Stamford produced, was a massive, singular entity of impressive size, color, and smell, demonstrating the Midwestern commitment to face challenges as a collective.
Impressed by the sample and the history lesson Dr. Wendersonn had provided, I thanked her for her generosity, to which she only responded, “Oh! You betcha”.
The West
I had originally intended to break my studies of the Western United States up into two different and distinct areas: the Southwest, consisting of New Mexico, Arizona, and Southern California, and the Pacific Northwest, which would cover everything from Washington down to San Francisco, but as time and grant money were running short I had to lump the entire part of the country into one massive “shategory”.
Seeking relief from the cold and snow of the Upper Midwest, my travels brought me to Los Angeles, Calif., where I met professional surfer and competitive pooper Chad Black. Black, who hails from Santa Barbara, has been competing in waste-producing contests since 2008. He describes the competitions as such:
“Well, like, they’re just kinda these rad get-togethers where people who really like to drop a smash show up and do their thing, you know, man?” he asked me, preparing for his contribution to my study by downing a massive bean burrito from Del Taco.
Fifteen minutes later, Chad made a bee-line for the nearest cabana, where he constructed his masterpiece, affectionately nicknamed “Stinkberry”. The name, he explained, was derived from his tendency to poop out long turds that resemble soft serve ice cream. I mused that the consistency of the caca was mirrored the stereotype of southern California life: smooth, soft, and easy to produce. He nodded in assent, passing a loud fart for extra emphasis.
Conclusion
As I clunked back to Stamford in my Nova, I reflected on all that I’d learned during my travels. I’d met some interesting characters in my journey (some of whom espoused downright silly beliefs), but if one thing remained constant whether I was leaning over an outhouse in Tennessee or poring over a lab bench in Minnesota, it’s that essentially, all
Americans are full of crap, and it all stinks. Dr. Cilleputte almost redeemed himself with that last line, but that last article of his – woof.
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