I know you're thinking three things right now. The first may be that probably dozens of lists of as-seen-on-TV crap exist already. The second is that there's no legitimate way to make a list with a single entry. The third is that the noise coming from the attic is exactly in time with the keystrokes one would make if they were typing the very words you're reading in this article, right now, on an old-timey keyboard. To answer your concerns: yes, other lists exist; yes, I can make a list of one; and yes, I time-travel to and from your attic to write articles and spy on you in the shower. The things you do with soap are epic.
To the subject at hand, this could have been a multi-entry list, but other products would cheapen the full temerity of the commercial about which I am writing. The commercial, the product, the company behind it -- all of them are now a part of the annals of mind-bogglingly-stupid-invention history. This product deserves no less scorn than one might heap upon the kind of person who uses your toothbrush without asking when they spend the night, or perhaps a serial killer of politicians. Basically, someone awful, but not a despot or anything. Let's not get crazy.
The subject of my ire? Poofume. For crying out loud.
I want to fold up my laptop and just smash it on the heads of the people in the commercial for this product and somehow make that experience -- the visual, the sound, the feeling I get and the feeling they endure, be this entire article. I need you to really immerse yourself in this. But I can't. Words, don't fail me now.
Poofume, a name that gets less and less clever every time you hear it, is a spray you use before laying out a deuce. You take this stuff into the bathroom and you spray it in your toilet so it coats the top of the water. It just lays there on your turd-bowl meniscus, vaguely citrusy and oily, and waits for a dook to crest the horizon. Your dook. Your dook that smells so bad that you preplanned a way to make it smell better. Because apparently Poofume creates some kind of impenetrable force field of anti-stink that keeps turd gasses from escaping the bowl, for however many seconds or minutes you plan on leaving that turd to stew.
"So, what are you doing with that animation degree?"
"Po- ... uh ... hentai. I'm working in hentai."
The infomercial presents us with a typical scenario -- you're a girl in your 20s, about to have your fiance over for dinner, but just as company arrives, you realize your father just laid waste to an entire village of mud bunnies, and apparently that means your house needs to be put under quarantine. Surely your future husband will take one step into the house, smell the wickedness that is genetically linkable to you, and punch your mouth before leaving forever. Same old story.
But wait! Mom to the rescue! Turns out we have Poofume, so dad's asstronauts won't be an issue! The day is saved and romance can triumph over dad's Ganges trout. Then it goes on to sing the praises of this silly ass product before offering up an address and phone number from which you can shamefully order some, if your innards have been a constant source of despair for you lo these many years. And this is where I start asking questions.
Why Does This Exist?
I feel like a traveler abroad, lost in a land in which no one speaks my language and also sprays something in the toilet before they let loose with the colon chowder. I get that some people are probably less comfortable with their colorectal bouquet than I am. I understand on a basic, manly level that poop is going to stink. That's its job. It comes from butts. Maybe other people live in denial of this basic truth, I can't say for sure, but haven't we managed pretty well so far? Humanity, I mean? It's 2015. We have cars that can drive themselves. Is your poop stank such a handicap that it's slowing you down in life? Is it causing the wallpaper to peel? Did it stunt the growth of your children? I need answers.
What's Wrong With You?
Adrian Samson/Digital Vision/Getty Images
Why, Bessie, I do believe you make the most dee-licious pies in the pasture!
I'm pretty confident that, like beautiful snowflakes and fingerprints, everyone's personal crap factories break down sloppy Joes and Yoo-Hoo in their own unique ways, creating something equally yet distinctly abysmal from everyone else's, but come on. If your own brand of chum is so awful it requires this level of accommodation, you need a doctor. Your insides shouldn't be a prop from a horror show. If you find your eyes watering or neighbors routinely evacuating as panicked screams fill the neighborhood, then maybe your problem is bigger than Poofume can deal with. And if not, then just chill out, you olfactory candy-ass. No one expects a turd to smell like fresh-baked bread; don't go making mountains out of molehills.
Imagine this is but a turd.
The dynamics of butt babies is not something we need to really plumb the depths of as adults. We've all run afoul of the Bristol Stool Chart; we've all spent a day in our youths consuming nothing but hot wings and cost-effective malt liquor that caused us to marvel at what our insides wrought. I don't need to be juvenile and describe the various and sundry corn massacres that one could befoul a toilet with for you to get my point. But I will go this far -- if Poofume creates a seal on top of the water, then how on Earth does it succeed in its duties if faced with a beast that breaches the surface?
Like the white whale rising threateningly to mock Ahab, so too will your keister cakes occasionally be of such magnitude and prowess that they refuse to nestle quite timid and well-heeled into the tiny chasm at the bottom of the bowl. Maybe they're puffed up with pride, maybe just swamp gas, but some will rise to the surface and stay there like chocodiles, silent and ominous in the murk. What strength does Poofume hold over this foul creation? None! And you can't predict this occurrence, but you can be damn sure it's less rare than spotting Bigfoot in the wild. Common enough that you're probably wasting your time Poofuming up the bowl ahead of time, anyway.