One day, the CEO of a colostomy bag manufacturer called Shappens noticed their sales had peaked.
“Ideas on the table PDQ if you want to keep your job!” Merde commanded the marketing team, adopting his always-be-closing tone.
“Well, there has been a nice spike in colon cancer thanks to our partners over at Pfizer and Mod—” one enterprising ambiguity named Marl piped up, tapping their heels nervously.
“Lotta damn help they’ve been, warp-turboing our customers into the crematorium!” Merde steamed. “We need our marks alive!”
“Maybe we can ask them to dial back the toxicity a bit,” Jakes offered.
“No, dammit. That’ll only give us a couple years. We need recurring revenue for life! The younger, the better.”
“What if we told people colostomy bags are the only way for people to avoid dying of poopitis and anyone who thinks disgusting colon pooping is healthier is a crazy anti-ostomier conspiracy theorist?” Guano asked.
“Bonus points for Guano! Who’s next?”
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“Speaking of the WHO, we can get them to declare a public health emergency for poopitis and issue a statement recommending colostomy bags!” Marl jumped at the opportunity to redeem themself.
“Boo-yah!” Merde slapped the conference table.
“Why don’t we go whole hog and expand the campaign to include urostomy bags?” Guano suggested. “We could offer two-for-one deals and partner up with medical facilities to expedite the procedures, maybe even administer them in drugstores!”
Merde fist-bumped him.
“Do we need to invent a different condition for the urostomies, or should we just attach it to poopitis for simplicity?” Scat asked.
“Let’s get the focus groups and polls going and see what sticks to the wall,” Merde said. “We might need an all-in-one to cover both, but poopitis is damn catchy. Novel poopitis even better.”
“Peepitis!” Scat exclaimed. “Novel poopitis and peepitis.”
“Genius, Scat,” Merde said.
“How will people know they’ve got poopitis or peepitis?” Winnet interjected.
“We’ll make a test they can stick up their butt or pee on with an 80-percent positivity rate,” said Guano. “Tell people they won’t know they’ve got it unless they take the test, which will be required for work, school, military, what-have-you. Create a subsidiary to produce them so it doesn’t look like there’s a conflict of interest.”
“What about symptoms?” she asked.
“That’s the beauty of it,” said Guano. “You make up some vague crap that applies to most people, say others are asymptomatic, and let the test do the rest.”
“And get the news to run a 24/7 ticker count of cases,” said Scoop.
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“But is that really enough to make people get such an extreme procedure?” Winnet inquired.
“You really are new to this, aren’t you,” Jakes laughed.
“What do you mean?” Winnet asked.
He explained, “Look, we get the CDC to draw up a protocol for treating poopitis, and hospitals make bank for every patient they give this ‘special treatment’ to—with an extra bonus if they die with poopitis listed as cause of death. The drugs in the protocol would be covered under an EUA, so nobody can sue when they realize the hospitals knocked off their loved ones.”
“Wait, whaat?” Winnet’s eyes bulged.
“Shut it, Jakes,” Merde warned. “Winnet hasn’t had the orientation yet. We’ll go over that later. What about the cosmetic angle?”
“Oh, oh, oh!” Kak cried. “We could sell a whole line of bespoke bags crafted by the hottest fashion designers ranging from the low-end $5,000 all the way up to $75,000 or even higher, depending on the name!”
Merde grinned. “I like it. Start making a list of designers to contract for the Hot Mess line.”
“We need a catchy name for the procedure—we could call it getting bagged,” Kak suggested.
“Get bagged or get fragged!” Scoop exclaimed.
“Do people even know what ‘fragged’ means?” Kak asked.
“The nudge unit can nail down slogans later,” said Merde. “Keep the ideas comin’, guys. What else ya got?”
“We could get Project Runway to dedicate a whole season to it—‘We’re All in Shit Together!’” Scoop added.
