The poopetrator
A man in Denver was recently arrested for burglary after the DNA in a pair of soiled underpants found at the crime scene was analyzed and determined to be his.
This CSI moment in the field of poop analysis was no doubt a triumph for both science and law enforcement, and promises that stern justice will be meted out to all weak-bowelled burglars in the future.
The burglar in question, Rodney Mark Hendrix, was already serving time for an unrelated offense when the criminal crap was traced back to him. It took 13 months for the lab results to be returned, no doubt because no one in the lab was overly keen to work with the suspect substance.
The crime took place in a church-school-daycare complex, where Rodney probably thought he had gotten away with stealing over four grand worth of electronic goodies despite soiling himself in the process.
What caused Mr. Hendrix to dirty his drawers remains unknown, although likely it was fear. Did a police siren go off nearby? Did a somnambulistic minister interrupt the crime, causing Hendrix to hide in the rest room where the underwear was found? Did Jesus appear to him, and command him to stop stealing from His church? Because any of those would do it.
Or was it the suspect's simple diet of fast-food tacos and cheap beer that made him criminally irregular?
No one knows. And, speaking of lack of knowledge, frankly, very few of you probably knew that your personal product blossomed with telltale genetic clues to your unique identity. What quantity of waste would be necessary to identify you as a person who consistently forgets to flush in public bathrooms I don't know, but I bet there's more than enough in that log lying in the bowl in that last Quicki-Mart rest room you polluted, you inconsiderate bastard. When the DNA results come back, you're busted.
There may well be enough DNA in a simple skidmark in your tightie-whities to identify you as their owner, and also as a person too slovenly to use bleach.
The question is whether your gaseous waste contains enough DNA to brand you as the farter. If so, I envision a future in which flatus identifying equipment is installed in critical environments, mostly elevators. Strategies employed by the fart prone now, such as staring at the fattest person in the Otis and wrinkling your nose after releasing a stinker, will be revealed for the dishonest gimmicks that they are, and the present crude principle used to detect the individual who has broken wind ("he who smelt it, dealt it") will give way to scientific certainty. In this brave new world, future farters will no doubt just shamefacedly raise their hands rather than wait to be unerringly identified by technology.
Science marches on, and it takes no prisoners. Except for Rodney Hendrix.
This CSI moment in the field of poop analysis was no doubt a triumph for both science and law enforcement, and promises that stern justice will be meted out to all weak-bowelled burglars in the future.
The burglar in question, Rodney Mark Hendrix, was already serving time for an unrelated offense when the criminal crap was traced back to him. It took 13 months for the lab results to be returned, no doubt because no one in the lab was overly keen to work with the suspect substance.
The crime took place in a church-school-daycare complex, where Rodney probably thought he had gotten away with stealing over four grand worth of electronic goodies despite soiling himself in the process.
What caused Mr. Hendrix to dirty his drawers remains unknown, although likely it was fear. Did a police siren go off nearby? Did a somnambulistic minister interrupt the crime, causing Hendrix to hide in the rest room where the underwear was found? Did Jesus appear to him, and command him to stop stealing from His church? Because any of those would do it.
Or was it the suspect's simple diet of fast-food tacos and cheap beer that made him criminally irregular?
No one knows. And, speaking of lack of knowledge, frankly, very few of you probably knew that your personal product blossomed with telltale genetic clues to your unique identity. What quantity of waste would be necessary to identify you as a person who consistently forgets to flush in public bathrooms I don't know, but I bet there's more than enough in that log lying in the bowl in that last Quicki-Mart rest room you polluted, you inconsiderate bastard. When the DNA results come back, you're busted.
There may well be enough DNA in a simple skidmark in your tightie-whities to identify you as their owner, and also as a person too slovenly to use bleach.
The question is whether your gaseous waste contains enough DNA to brand you as the farter. If so, I envision a future in which flatus identifying equipment is installed in critical environments, mostly elevators. Strategies employed by the fart prone now, such as staring at the fattest person in the Otis and wrinkling your nose after releasing a stinker, will be revealed for the dishonest gimmicks that they are, and the present crude principle used to detect the individual who has broken wind ("he who smelt it, dealt it") will give way to scientific certainty. In this brave new world, future farters will no doubt just shamefacedly raise their hands rather than wait to be unerringly identified by technology.
Science marches on, and it takes no prisoners. Except for Rodney Hendrix.
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