Shappens, Inc.
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?”
“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.
“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.
“Is that even still on? Sure, ring up the PR brigade and start pumping this into reality TV shows, sitcoms, talk shows, movies, games, magazines, newspapers, books, radio programs, social media, websites—the usual shotgun approach,” Merde mimed shooting scattershot. “Stress how miserable poopitis sufferers feel and have some gut-punch stories showing pitiful patients regretting not getting bagged just before they croak. Contrast that with glamor shots of hot chicks skipping through idyllic pastures with their diamond-studded bags. Pain and relief, pain and relief, over and over and over again. Make sure there’s a sense of urgency to get bagged but also scarcity. Everyone’s doing it, and they don’t want to be left out so they’d better hurry up while supplies last.”
“Let’s partner with doctors and nurses on an awareness-raising program with kickbacks for every ostomy!” Egesta leapt in.
“Excellent, Egesta,” Merde high-fived her.
“And we can lobby the politicians about mandates as soon as the WHO issues its PHEIC,” Marl said, twirling their blonde locks. “What if we make it look free by getting governments to pay for the procedures and bags so people can’t use money as an excuse to cheap out?”
“Good call, Marl,” Merde said. “Why don’t you draw up a list of every excuse someone could make and write a prebunking script to disseminate to the sales team and spokespersons.”
“Maybe we should get Yale going on an emotional messaging study,” Egesta suggested.
“Pronto,” said Merde. “Spin up a team of scientists, doctors, and researchers and have them design studies to produce the desired outcomes, too.”
“You think Johns Hopkins would be up for running a simulation?” asked Egesta.
“Don’t see why not. Round up the usual suspects,” Merde said. “And who wants to head up the fact-checking, debunking, trolling, and smear campaigns?”
Jakes raised his hand, “Me, me!”
“It’s yours. See if you can find a way to accuse anti-ostomiers of being racists, Nazis, right-wing extremists, misogynists, anti-semites, excrephobes, you know the drill,” Merde said. “But we’re still missing the lifetime subscription model. Any ideas?”
“I’ve got it!” Scat ejaculated. “Infantostomies should be strongly advised at birth to prevent babies from developing poopitis! And parents who reject the procedure should be shamed, shunned, and blamed for the spread of poopitis!”
“Ostomies from cradle to grave,” Merde applauded. He popped a bottle of Bollinger and nodded at his assistant to grab some glasses. “Now that’s a shitstorming session!”
“But we won’t have to get the procedure ourselves, right? I mean, I just want to make sure—” Winnet wondered.
A roar of cackles erupted around the table.
“Anyone working here would be exempt, of course. And all our politicians, celebrities, elites, anyone important,” Merde smiled, pouring her some bubbly.
“But how do we keep others from finding out we’re not bagged?” Winnet pressed.
“We could do a black market line of fauxostomies starting at $100K, with Shappens employees enjoying that perk as part of their employment package once they sign the nondisclosure agreement,” Merde raised his glass to the team, motioning his assistant to bring the NDS agreements over as he shouted, “Stool!”
“Stool!” they toasted back in unison.
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I just wrote an email to a music festival who asked me to house one of their composers:
Hi, Elizabeth
The last time the housing coordinator asked, I had inquired about the festival policy on vaccination. They confirmed that even if I was housing musicians, I couldn’t attend performances or practices without proof of vaccination. When they said, ‘maybe another time,’ I asked them to take me off the list.
Now that the dust has settled, I know many people who lost their jobs, had to leave school without their diplomas, some left the country, marriages ended, parents (including mine) died alone. I know of one suicide and several small businesses that went into debt and still ended up closing down.
I got off easy. I didn’t lose a job or housing. I just got excluded from places and events.
But going back to those places and events rankles—that effort at coercion of the few who weren’t forced by their circumstances. I don’t know if you remember some of the very ugly op-eds like Stephen Kessler’s Eulogy for the Unvaxxed. I have a YT video on it if you’d like to remember how mean things got.
And now, it seems like everyone just wants to forget. There was no explanation given that the festival was forced to make that choice. And maybe, even after everything, the festival would make it again.
My daughter is a bereavement counselor at Sutter, so she’s had to be fully vaxxed. When I saw her yesterday, she said that it was impossible to deny what she’s seeing—young people dying of cancers in numbers that had never happened before. She sees it with a co-worker’s wife who’s an acupuncturist, her own husband’s mother who died two weeks after their wedding, and her ridiculously healthy uncle, whose memorial is next month.
Some have paid a very heavy price for their positions, on one side or the other. It doesn’t feel right to just sweep under the rug the position the festival has taken and make nice.
Sincerely,
Tereza
Merde, Guano & Scat.
Great trio, perhaps the name of a law firm.