Let's play a game! It'll be fun.

This is a ~*THOUGHT EXPERIMENT*~. Nothing here should be taken as a threat, offer, or suggestion that any of the acts about to be described will ever happen. Okay? Okay.

Let's say for the sake of this ~intellectual construct~ that we happened to live in the same town and were in the same social circles, but weren't friends - just barely acquainted. Because I'm a suave motherfucker, you invite me back to your place to watch Strange Days on DVD, because that movie is awesome and totally go check it out.

We get to your place, I excuse myself to the bathroom and - vanish. After a while, you check on the bathroom, only to find a perfectly coiled turd delicately balanced on top of the toilet seat, and I've apparently escaped out the window.

Huh. Weird. Things happen, though, and you invite me over again, because seriously that movie is so great.

This time, I head to the kitchen for a snack, and vanish. Investigation reveals that I've sharted in your water pitcher, turning what was once a gallon of crisp, clear Adam's Ale into my own personal chowder. Also escaped out the window again.

Maybe it's just a custom of his people, you think, and invite me over again, because the soundtrack for that film is remarkably great and turned me on to Macedonian folk pop.

I announce that I forgot something in my car, and vanish. You roll your eyes and head outside to survey the damage, only to find that I had apparently pressed my anus to your mail slot (and that I've been a good boy and eating my fiber lately) and pooped a perfect rectangle through it, like the world's foulest Play-Doh Fun Factory.

You sigh and invite me over again, because Strange Days is an excellent piece of speculative fiction and the idea of being able to record and play back experiences is fodder for some really great imagination.

This time I shove past you when you open the door and, in record time, drop a big hairy loaf in your fish tank. You almost puke on the floor while fishing it out because I'd had Mexican the night before, and your prize clownfish is picking the green onion bits out of the mess.

Through gritted teeth, you invite me over AGAIN, because although she's still in a subservient role to the protagonist, and doesn't pass the Bechdel test, the character of Mace is a rare example of a strong black woman in film.

This time I've brought a gift! A box of raisins. Excellent, you say, and shelve it for later, because you're not hungry now, but were going to make oatmeal cookies later, and oatmeal raisin cookies are proof of a kind and loving deity. The DVD player is on the fritz, though, and we wind up watching three hours of Hee Haw reruns. I take my leave, and that's when you discover that the box of raisins is instead filled with tiny blobs of painstakingly-rolled tiny poops. You begin to wonder what happened to me as a child.

It takes you a good half hour of psyching yourself up to pick up the phone and let me know that you got your DVD player fixed, so come on over and we'll enjoy the cinematography of Matthew Leonetti.

This time I've brought a bottle of wine! Let's pretend that I'm getting a little tired of coming up with wacky scenarios and it's piss, alright, it's a wine bottle filled with piss. Maybe it's mine, maybe it isn't, but the piss provenance isn't the issue here, okay? It's just piss. A refreshing change from poo shenanigans, sure, but you're still left with a bottle of Riesling where Riesling is crossed out with a green crayon and PEESLING is written in its place. And the S is backwards, this is for Reasons. I'm a writer!

That's what, six already? Two more? Okay.

You invite me over again, for reasons no sane person could even begin to speculate to, and I announce to you that I have truly changed my ways, and in fact, had hired a cleaning crew to come by earlier while you were at work and scour the place stem to stern. As much as it unnerves you to have had people in your apartment without your knowledge, and as much as it worries you that I was apparently able to let them in somehow, you have to admit that the place has never looked better. We watch the film and agree that it's one of the finest films ever made, and that it's a damnable shame that James Cameron is famous for lesser films like The Terminator series, when this is clearly his masterwork. We bid each other adieu, and you head to bed happy that for once, you got through an evening without any unauthorized exhaust. The next morning comes, and the apartment smells FOUL. It takes you three hours to check the place over, and you finally found that I have laid the king hell of all eggs on the filter for your air conditioner. You stare at it in silent amazement, wondering how I passed that thing and was able to walk afterward. You consider shooting it before tossing it in the dumpster, because you're not used to seeing anything that large that is neither alive nor a stone.

I call you the next morning wanting to know if you'd like to see The Terror Of Tiny-Town, an all-dwarf spaghetti western. This is the point at which you suggest it's not working out.

Okay. NOW FOR THE EXPERIMENT. At which point in the above did your suspension of disbelief falter? If it was anywhere past the first hidden poo, then you are either far more forgiving than is healthy, or you might have some issues with self-esteem. And yet, after repeatedly making a terrible mess of the place and making sure we don't want you around anymore *seven seperate times*, you still expect to be invited over for coffee and discussion of Ralph Fiennes and Vincent D'Onofrio's best film?