We currently see some of this technology used on dairy farms because dairy cows produce large amounts of waste every day. The feces of the cows are collected and inserted into machines called “digesters” which separate and store a highly flammable methane bio-gas. This methane gas can then be used to power a turbine generator which will produce electricity.

We also see the technology used in some sewage waste treatment factories. Humans produce huge amounts of waste everyday, some of which all comes to a focal point in sewage treatment facilities. The facilities that are equipped with digesters are able to produce electricity from the waste, sometimes enough to be self-sufficient, and sometimes they may even have some leftover to sell off as extra electric energy to the power grid.

For all normal poops you have to make the decision on when to stop wiping based on how you feel, and what the toilet paper is telling you.   These really are the only two ways to determine when to stop, so it is safe to assume that blind people have a higher percentage of skid marks in their underwear.

One proven, although rough method is the traffic light method.  This was sent in and illustrated below by a No.  2  guide users.  Enjoy!

the traffic light method of wiping

Eric Carrier is your average 23-year old Craigslist user: He posts gigs, he hires people, he shows his weiner, he fakes mental retardation, and he shits his pants. Nothing unusual. The nurse he hired from the bartering/job posting website therefore should not have been surprised that Carrier in fact was not mentally challenged, nor using diapers to do his business. It comes with the territory.

At Least I'm Clean

About an hour after the nurse arrived to Carrier’s home – where the Craigslist posting made it clear that a father was requesting help for his disabled son, and the father was nowhere to be seen – Carrier felt it was time to get those diapers changed, and the nurse finally figured out she was duped…but only after she wiped Carrier’s butthole quite thoroughly.

But was this nurse even certified? I mean, how many nurses find gigs on Craigslist? C’mon, the healthcare bill hasn’t taken effect yet and your pay is still bloated, so my guess is this nurse wasn’t even qualified for the gig in the first place. It’s like those episodes of “To Catch a Predator” – is it really intent to commit underage sexual abuse if you’re not really talking to someone who’s underage? And if it’s not a real nurse who’s changing your diapers or subjected to your Farrelly Brothers farce, who’s really getting duped?

Eric Carrier, I’m sorry society frowns upon this. But you did what any sexually-repressed, scat-curious, morally-devoid person would do, and that is turn to Craigslist. What can we convince someone to do next?

I was already on all fours at this point, with my ass in the air like a god-damn Fergie video. I crawled on all fours with my head down, just wanting to make it to the TP. It was becoming a race for time.

read the full story…

The 2003 invasion of Iraq was one of the few times during the Global War on Terror that American Marines have lived in a long period of natural squalor. This was the period before the contracted DFAC (military dining facility), phone center, and laundry facility took a grip in the country. All throughout March and April of that year, the men of 1st Marine Division not only battled a retreating Iraqi Army, but they were living on the move with little food or rest. One MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) a day was the standard for the tired Marines. The monotony of eating the processed meal was becoming overwhelming, and the destitute young men were becoming weak. Lucky for them, the war planners had one more mission for them at the end of the offensive.

The pacification of Tikrit would become 1st Marine Division’s crowning achievement. Three light armored reconnaissance battalions were sent north in the war’s final days to take Saddam Hussein’s hometown. This mission completed the longest land invasion in the history of the United States Marine Corps and solidified US victory. Remember when our kick-ass President let everybody in the world know of our triumph, when he arrived on the USS Abraham Lincoln via Navy 1 and proclaimed, “Mission Accomplished!”

The local population came out in droves to greet us, their great liberators. Dancing in the streets ensued, celebratory fire rang out, and Michael Jackson’s “Beat it” drowned out the Muslim call to prayer. It was a celebration to end all.

My fellow Marines called me Chewy, after Chewbacca, the universe’s favorite hairy sidekick. This name was given to me by my superiors after I showed up to the unit and was immediately questioned about my shaving practices. I gave my face as much Gillette attention as any other good Marine would, but my genetic predisposition to quick facial hair growth gave me the reputation of being someone who needed to constantly have my hygiene practices monitored. Once they realized it was just the way I was, the harassment over me shaving stopped, but the name stuck.

I had become just as caught up with the festivities as the local Iraqis after we took Tikrit. The leadership in my company was having an increasingly difficult time keeping the reins on myself and my comrades. When the elderly Iraqi woman came out of her home with a fresh plate of chicken, it was too much to resist.

“Don’t mind if I do,” was the first thing I said as I grabbed for the delicious looking bird.

This young PFC violently pushed my fellow warriors aside in order to taste the hot, sweet, coveted poultry. I gorged on chicken and guzzled chai as if it was beer at a frat party. I was satisfying the appetite that I had been yearning for a month now. The grease from the chicken dripped down my chin as I chewed and stuffed my happy mouth. With my stomach full, and my hunger satisfied, I joined in with the other Marines in the second thing we longed for, sleep. When I climbed up into my armored vehicle, I rolled happily into the driver’s seat to take a long nap.

1330- I close my eyes

1345- I wake, “Something’s not right.”

I felt something stingy moving up my back. I arched my back to investigate the problem.

I had soiled myself. This grown man, this warrior and liberator, this Marine had soiled himself in his vehicle of war. In order to properly correct this quandary, I had to move slowly and wisely so I could avoid spreading the mess anymore around my body. Ashamed and bewildered, I poked my head outside of the driver’s compartment hatch. I was still so tired and worn that all I wanted to do was change my trousers and resume my rest. My pack was hanging on the side of the vehicle, and it needed to be accessed in order to grab some new trousers. Like most Marines in the company, I only brought two sets of camouflage utilities with me over the border. One that I was wearing and one spare.

Unfortunately for me, a mortar round had sent shards of shrapnel ripping through my pack a few days earlier. I put on the new hole riddled trousers and quietly packed away the soiled ones so as not to be noticed by my comrades who would most likely never let me live it down. Rest, I just wanted rest. It was embarrassing, but I needed sleep. Operations would be resuming soon.

1405- I close my eyes

1440- I wake

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

In the back of the 14-ton vehicle, a Marine known as Mr B was awoken by my blood curdling scream coming from the driver’s compartment.

“Chewy, you OK?” he asked.

My voice cracked and I shamefully replied, “I fuckin’ shit myself.”

Tears were beginning to build under my eyes. Bootcamp had taken all of my pride and freedoms away. Throughout my short time in the Marine Corps, I had learned there was no such thing as privacy. But this was something I had never dealt with. I had no control over anything anymore. Not even my hall of fame regions. Earlier, I was being hailed as a hero by a grateful people, but I had now managed to hit rock bottom in the matter of an hour. ROCK FUCKIN’ BOTTOM!

Mr B immediately took it upon himself to mock me in every possible way. Marines will always protect each other in combat and on the hunt for ass, that’s about it. Any other time Marines interact with each other it is a stream of insults in order to mentally breakdown your brother. Sickness in war is as old as conflict itself. A warrior teasing his comrades for being sick in the field is also as old as conflict.

Mr B was informing anybody within earshot of my predicament, “Hey Fish, Chewy got shit everywhere.”

Ike, the gunner of the vehicle approached us junior Marines, “Hey…Corporal Ike, Chewy shit himself.”

Ike responded, “That’s nice. 2nd platoon found a weapons cache. Grab the C-4, we’re movin’ in 5 mikes.” He then calmly turned to me and added, “You smell like an infant. Change your pants.”

I now stood on my vehicle facing the greatest dilemma of my life. In my left hand I held the trousers from my private embarrassment. In the right, I held the public one. It was my only two sets of camouflage bottoms. I gazed at the two pairs of pants with my eyes half open and my mouth dropped. I stared at these pants with a lifeless thousand yard stare. I had five minutes to make the decision of which trouser had the least amount of stomach problem on it. It was a tossup. I had learned early on in my Marine training that quick thinking can mean the difference between life and death. So I chose the first incident, put my bottoms on, sat in the driver’s seat, and waited for movement.

The 15 minute drive to the open field where the weapons were to be detonated was the most miserable experience of my enlistment. As soon as we stepped off from our position, I felt it brewing again. What did I care? How worse could it get? I drove the massive vehicle weaving through back alleys of the ancient city and pushing through oxen herds. Sweat began to pour out of my brows as I held in my tears. On that drive, I became so consumed with the question of “should I just go again?” I was able to hold off long enough to arrive at the destination. As soon as my platoon pulled up to the detonation site, I hurled myself over the vehicle and made a mad dash for the open field.

The next part of the story is almost too graphic to print. To say the least, I wreaked havoc. The Marines of my company had gathered around to watch the spectacle at this point. They laughed and mocked me as I was struggling to save my health. The worst part was not that my fellow brothers-in-arms were laughing at me, but as I lifted my head I saw that the local peoples-who were originally drawn to the site by the “big boom” that was about to happen-were watching in horror as my bright white ass defamed their land. Men, women, and children saw this American in the worst of my existence. After their initial shock, they too began to cackle. It was the purest form of shock and awe. I slumped over on my side and held my arms up slowly as if it was my last dramatic breath.

“Mr B…Mr B,” I said in a half-weeping, half-moaning voice, “Shit paper! Give it!”

Mr B just stood there hesitantly as the timed detonation was drawing near.

“You fuckin’ ass butt! Please!” I screamed.

The MREs given to the troops always contained toilet paper. The Marines of my vehicle had spent months accumulating these wipes. With that, Mr B grabbed the Ziploc full of TP in the back and hurled it towards me. It landed a good ten feet away from me.

I was already on all fours at this point, with my ass in the air like a god-damn Fergie video. I crawled on all fours with my head down, just wanting to make it to the TP. It was becoming a race for time. When I reached my destination, I knew that I could not solve this problem with a simple wipe of my ass. There was a problem to solve and I needed to find the most probable solution. I grabbed the wipe with the laughter still ringing in the background. I shuffled it around, twisting it, smoothing it, molding it until it became what my fellow Marines would later refer to as a work of art. It was perfectly soft, ergonomic, and phallic in design. It would be used to plug what I had self-admitted I had no control over anymore. It became standard for the Marines who would become sick later. It became known as the MAN-PON. I then did what all of you are expecting…I shoved it up my ass to plug the uncontrollable.

Afterwards, I reluctantly double timed my way back to the vehicle with my head down.

BOOM!!!

The C-4 detonated the thousand pounds or so of small-arms weapons while this relieved Teufel Hunden walked back to my comrades. Lucky for me, there was an empty ammo can I was able to use to scrub the thread soaked stains from the rear of my trousers. I was still sick, tired, and embarrassed from the couple of hours my world was turned upside down.

The next few nights, I volunteered for every single watch throughout the day and night. It didn’t matter how much sleep I would lose, or how much boredom I would endure. I would do anything to avoid falling back asleep. The MAN-PON held up strong throughout the next few days, and while I came upon this solution through my own misery, the Marines of our battalion would adopt it as the standard practice to combat explosive situations.

Wrap A Nap

Whether you are hungover, suffering from boredom, out of five hour energy drink, or just plain tired, sometims you need to curl up into a ball and sleep in the bathroom stall.  It is a discrete way to kill time and re-energize during the long work day.

As cozy as George Costanza made it look, no one wants to get caught sleeping under their desk. Although less risky, in order to pull off the fake crap & nap there are a few conditions that need to be met, and a few precaustions you should take.

1. No one else can be in the bathroom taking a dump - It does not matter how tired you are, it is impossible to fall asleep while hearing / smelling someone else empty their bowels. It is just as alarming and disgusting as trying to sleep in your dorm while your college roommate is getting laid in the bed next to you. If you are settled in for a toliet nap, and someone enters to take care of business, you can only sit there awkwardly and wait it out, or give up, fake flush and try again later.

2. No Snoring - If you are a chronic snorer than this porcelain delight is not for you.  The only way around this obstacle is to pretend you are a narcoleptic. This takes some real commitment, as you occassionally have to nod off at random times, in front of co-workers.Â

3. Set an alarm - Even if you are not historically a heavy sleeper, there is still a chance you willl wake up two hours later to the sound of co-workers calling your name for the big meeting. This is especially dangerous if you are sleeping off a hangover.  Consider this the “toilet paper” of the faek crap & nap.  It is something you should always check and set before you enter the stall.  You don’t want to get caught with your pants down.

4. Expect no comfort - You cannont think like the princess and the pea, you need to man up and be the prince and the pee. There are a few small adjustments you can make to allow yourself maximum comfort, but expect no pleasentries.  One item you can add to your routine is the wrap a nap.  Don’t lose sight of the fact that you are sleeping in a bathroom stall. Epext the worse, settle for 15 min of workless and poopless silence.Â

Pro Tip — You can also pull off the fake crap & nap in a bar if you have had too much to drink and need a breather, or just an excuse to get away from some idiot.