Dr. Mehmet Oz has announced he will run for the Senate as a Republican from the state of Pennsylvania, despite living in New Jersey. Over here, we proudly note that Oz came to our attention back in 2013, when he was giving aesthetic advice on the appearance of your shit. Here's the counsel the entire Senate can look forward to, should this cheerful quack win the election-News Item
He (Dr. Oz) also suggests how often we should move our bowels and what they ought to look like when we do (at least every other day, brown with a hint of gold, shaped like an S, he says and "it should hit the water like a diver from Acapulco."
From "The Operator," a profile of Dr. Mehmet Oz, heart surgeon and star of "The Dr. Oz Show," published in The New Yorker, 2/4/2013.
Frankly, for me, this medical revelation opens a whole new field in which I fear my accomplishments may be inadequate. I was already self-conscious about my many attributes which I feel are substandard by American ideals; the money in my IRA, the quality of my automobile, the diminutive size of my gun collection, the number of friends I have on Facebook. For Dr. Oz, an Ivy-league educated heart surgeon, a scion of Oprah and popularly known as "America's Doctor" to have opened the lid, so to speak, on fecal aesthetics promised a possible death knell for my remaining fragments of self-esteem.
Nonetheless, as working journalist, full disclosure on my part is a necessity. Immediately after my most recent accomplishment in the field in question, I consulted the contents of my Kohler and was initially pleased. They were indisputably brown. I failed, however, to notice any flecks of gold, and resolved to add a couple shots of Goldschlagger, a liqueur which features actual gold leaf swirling in the bottle and is currently popular only with frat boys and young women psyching themselves up for wet t-shirt contests, to my daily intake of alcoholic beverages. That should make the product shine at the upper end of the Oz spectrum, I calculated.
However, I quickly noted other failings that defied correction. Nothing before my eyes resembled an "S" and I lacked any hygienic means of editing. Other letters were represented, and I was particularly proud of what appeared to be a capital "E," but I am not sure Dr. Oz would approve.
The Acapulco rubric I must admit I failed to understand. To "hit the water like a diver from Acapulco," that is to say, from a great height, wearing a pair of small, tight diving underwear, accompanied by cheers and the scuttling of frightened crabs, is nothing I ever envisioned for my specimens, and rather than chastising myself for my own inadequacies in this area, I wondered what sort of plumbing fixture Dr. Oz personally uses and how he manages to pull a crowd for his events.
You'll note Dr. Oz does not offer his followers extra credit for the appearance of corn. This cost me valuable points.
The doctor entirely omits the subject of odor, for which we can all be grateful. I am sure he would set a high bar on this aspect, describing the ideal stool (his own) as smelling richly of cinnamon, or possibly of cumin, with just a few background notes of basil and coriander.
The word "stink" would not be applicable.
He (Dr. Oz) also suggests how often we should move our bowels and what they ought to look like when we do (at least every other day, brown with a hint of gold, shaped like an S, he says and "it should hit the water like a diver from Acapulco."
From "The Operator," a profile of Dr. Mehmet Oz, heart surgeon and star of "The Dr. Oz Show," published in The New Yorker, 2/4/2013.
Frankly, for me, this medical revelation opens a whole new field in which I fear my accomplishments may be inadequate. I was already self-conscious about my many attributes which I feel are substandard by American ideals; the money in my IRA, the quality of my automobile, the diminutive size of my gun collection, the number of friends I have on Facebook. For Dr. Oz, an Ivy-league educated heart surgeon, a scion of Oprah and popularly known as "America's Doctor" to have opened the lid, so to speak, on fecal aesthetics promised a possible death knell for my remaining fragments of self-esteem.
Nonetheless, as working journalist, full disclosure on my part is a necessity. Immediately after my most recent accomplishment in the field in question, I consulted the contents of my Kohler and was initially pleased. They were indisputably brown. I failed, however, to notice any flecks of gold, and resolved to add a couple shots of Goldschlagger, a liqueur which features actual gold leaf swirling in the bottle and is currently popular only with frat boys and young women psyching themselves up for wet t-shirt contests, to my daily intake of alcoholic beverages. That should make the product shine at the upper end of the Oz spectrum, I calculated.
However, I quickly noted other failings that defied correction. Nothing before my eyes resembled an "S" and I lacked any hygienic means of editing. Other letters were represented, and I was particularly proud of what appeared to be a capital "E," but I am not sure Dr. Oz would approve.
The Acapulco rubric I must admit I failed to understand. To "hit the water like a diver from Acapulco," that is to say, from a great height, wearing a pair of small, tight diving underwear, accompanied by cheers and the scuttling of frightened crabs, is nothing I ever envisioned for my specimens, and rather than chastising myself for my own inadequacies in this area, I wondered what sort of plumbing fixture Dr. Oz personally uses and how he manages to pull a crowd for his events.
You'll note Dr. Oz does not offer his followers extra credit for the appearance of corn. This cost me valuable points.
The doctor entirely omits the subject of odor, for which we can all be grateful. I am sure he would set a high bar on this aspect, describing the ideal stool (his own) as smelling richly of cinnamon, or possibly of cumin, with just a few background notes of basil and coriander.
The word "stink" would not be applicable.
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