The spacesuit itself is pressurized, and we use this to our advantage. Air is being pumped in at all times, at a rate of 4.5 cubic feet per minute. 0.01 cubic feet per minute can be spared (safely) over a period of three minutes. We simply need to line the astro-pants with sensors that detect notable changes in temperature and moisture levels. Once you start flowing, the system pinpoints the location based on sensor activity and roars into action. To prevent the already-present airflow from rocketing poop up the back of your neck, a simple mesh layer at the waist and thighs will ensure your space sins remain in your demilitarized zone.
Basically, at this point you need a vacuum system to draw errant waste away from the body. A couple of strategically placed hoses, complete with mulching fan blades (just in case of high-fiber diets), activate and immediately pull waste in to funnel down the suit legs using the excess air flow, then electric fans force movement into a series of self-contained pockets able to hold the average amount of waste expected over six days, plus a little extra, with the option of the astronauts swapping out the sealed sacks over the six days when they have some spare time, in case they're worried about enchilada night on the Moon coming back to haunt them.
Another plan would require the use of small hobo monkeys -- think capuchins or tamarins of some kind. Little fellows that can stow away in your pants. These pants monkeys can be genetically modified to be poop fiends. When the time comes, they scurry up from their cozy homes at your ankles and go hog-wild in your crevasse, scouring the area clean, perhaps stowing any extra material in a little bindle for later before returning to their ankle apartment. If you have some whiz or a lady issue that needs dealing with, the monkeys act like squeegee kids and just buff that shit out. It's symbiosis at its most beautiful, it ensures cleanliness and happiness for all, and since NASA has a long history of launching monkeys into space, it should be super easy to pull off. Really, the only speed bump is funding a way to convince a monkey to eat poop for six days -- and of course, science will handle that part.
Is this the best solution for bathroom issues? Maybe not -- in an ideal world, I'd like to include some kind of moist wipe that gets drawn through your crack like a mezzaluna through a pizza, and maybe tiny robot hands that hold your ass checks apart to ensure sanitation of the bullseye and all surrounding areas so the monkeys don't miss anything. But this is only 2016. Maybe by 2025, we'll have robot ass-spreaders.
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2016 is almost over. Yes, this endless, rotten sh*t hurricane of a year -- which took away Bowie, Prince, and Florence Henderson, and gave us Trump, Harambe, and the Zika virus -- is finally drawing to a close. So to give this b*tch a proper viking funeral, Jack O'Brien and the crew are going to send out 2016 with Cracked's year in review in review. They'll rectify where every other year in review goes wrong by giving some much-needed airtime to the positive stories from the 2016, and by shedding light on the year's most important stories that got overlooked.
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