I Would Do Anything For Earth*

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Memo to Sheryl Crow: BUT I WON'T DO THAT.

And yes, I do feel unclean for making that reference. But unclean is good, because today we're going to talk about poop.

You see, last week, on her blog, Sheryl Crow did some pre-Earth-Day musings about little things we can do to help the environment. I know, you're thinking the same thing I'm thinking. "Sheryl Crow can write?" It seems to be true. Either that, or she pays a blogger to take dictation. You know, like Tom DeLay does.

The point is, however she did it, Sheryl Crow blogged and had ideas for saving the planet. And one of them involves saving the forests by limiting our toilet paper to one sheet per visit sur le cannes. Lest you think she's excessively draconian, she does allow for "those pesky occasions where 2 to 3 could be required.", or what the less delicate among us refer to as "a rousing rendition of Taco Bell's Cannon".

She now says she was joking. I don't care. This isn't Comedy Court. Whether she was kidding or not, Sheryl Crow has accidentally stumbled across a core truth of the universe - as liberal and environmentalist as I am, there's at least one thing I won't do to save the planet, and she's got it in one. Or two, if you go by traditional numbering schemes.

If there is any true measure of civilization, it's this - the more civilized a time or people are, the less likely it is that the average citizen will come into contact with, or have to deal with, poop. Civilization operates on an inverse shit ratio. My equivalent from a century ago had to deal with more poop than I do. 1807's verbal raconteur even more so. And back you go, farther and farther, with more and more poop taking up more and more of each individual's daily life. Chamber pots. Coprolites. The proverbial primordial poop.

On any given day, I can be pretty sure when I wake up in the morning that by the time I go to bed that night, I will not have touched poop. And what poop I have seen or smelled, I have seen or smelled briefly, and mainly because it's my own. And I can say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my life is better as a result.

Ergo, since we do not live in a bidet culture, you can have my toilet paper when you pry it from my clean, dry hands. You want my car? Take my car. Want to ration my electricity? Go right ahead. But I will wipe my ass if it means drowning every last one of you sons of bitches on the coasts.

Maybe it's a clever ploy on Sheryl Crow's part. Yes, I just read that sentence too, and I know how implausible it sounds. But I know one thing for sure. The instant I heard this proposal, I started thinking about all the conservation I'd be willing to do instead. I'll buy the fucking compact fluorescents already. I'll bike to the co-op. I'll reduce my carbon footprint to the size of Cinderella's shoe. Just let me squeeze the Charmin. And let everyone else do it too.

Because the only thing worse than not being provided with the tools to properly deal with my own excrement is being on an elevator, or in line at Wal-Mart, or on a bus with a whole bunch of fellow humans ALSO limited to one sheet per trip, all living out their own private versions of An Inconvenient Poop.

Sheryl Crow may be able to deal with one sheet per trip. I'm sure she has people for that, too. But if it comes down to a choice between my anus and the extinction of all mankind? Well, I didn't like you fuckers much anyway.

*Today's special bonus alternate title: ALL I WANNA DOO DOO.