I like to poop.

Everybody poops sometimes, and most people poop often, but how many people, I ask, actually LIKE it?

And I'll tell you something else, ladies and gentlemen (and everyone in-between) I even had a pastoral existence as a young lass. Toilet tissue was available in bounties, and the porcelain gods were capable of holding and unfathomable amount of materials of high density and volume before ceasing their functioning and cursing a bathroom with a soup of fecal matter and e. coli.

I tilled the earth and herded sheep. I spun wool into gold and churned butter.

But my almost daily existence lacked one crucial element: I rarely pooped.

The once every two weeks exercise of my spincter caused men to weep and women to fall into fits of ecstasy.

Yet, despite this celebration, the irregularity of my pooping was the source of my neurosis.

I am not, I assure you, a necropheliac. Rather, a young, upstanding woman in tune with her body (and isn’t that what the third wave of the feminist movement is all about?)

Yet the trials of accomplishing a certain regularity in my excretory patterns has lead me to reclaim my asshole from its stigma within society.

Thomas Jefferson died of unremitting diarrhea; he was not in touch with his asshole.

Do not be afraid of your asshole; your asshole is your friend. Your asshole sees and knows all, for what goes in has to come out somewhere. Despite all of the bad rap your asshole gets in the media, it is crucial to your survival.

Some people are into anal sex, and I am certainly not opposed to such friendly and healthy interaction with one’s (or another’s) asshole. Your asshole gives you plesant tangs of sensation when it stretches to greet your special friend’s little red buttplug with a friendly hello mastered by this fusiform muscle.