The Fecal Transplant Rags to Riches Story

My story is about a time where understanding of the human biome evolves to the point where we can distinguish the “quality” of your shit. Testing clinics pop up around the country, advertised over the radio and on Dunkin’ Donuts to-go cups, targeting a certain desperate demographic to which Jeb Maize reluctantly belongs.

Jeb finds out he has class “A+ Universal Premium” poopoo on the very day he quits his job at Best Buy. The owner of the clinic, Mr. Stuffs, is called to his room. Smearing a pea-sized sample of Jeb’s rich turd-stuff between his gloved fingertips in slow circles, he says the two of them are going to be millionaires.

Behind the veil of celebrity efforts to appear just like everybody else churns a market unlike any other. Aging actors and actresses pay out the ass for monthly deliveries of obsidian black refrigerators the size of shoeboxes containing syringes of special Peruvian algae that they inject into their faces every night before bed. Politicians subscribe to the astronomically priced, invite-only pill called Steady, also called Goat Rider and White House Lude, in order to maintain their cool demeanors while fielding questions about the affairs they have with their staff. Recently, premium ordure has floated to the top of this secret, upscale bazaar, to the extent that a well-regarded “provider” produces stool worth its weight in gold.

“Turns out success is terrible for your colon,” says Mr. Stuffs. “Too much stress, too much booze and drugs. Celebrities, almost universally, are either incontinent or constipated. They’d give up their firstborns for regularity.”

And for what Jeb provides, they do.

Jeb’s new-found liquidity comes with a newly constrained lifestyle. The celebrities require that he only eat beets that can be found growing in the natural canopy gardens of the Amazonian wimba tree, goats that were hugged and cried over as they died, and there is even one request from a foreign head of state that he eat the heart of a young woman, a relative of the head of state, who had recently and mysteriously passed. Jeb and his agent discuss the ups and downs of the cannibalistic proposal before, ultimately, refusing. But Jeb finds more fulfillment than he’d ever dreamed in this way of life where so much of what he does, every day, is directed by the people who pay him for his feces. He feels a bit like a sacred cow, perhaps, and doesn’t lament his lack of agency or control. He feels honored, and doesn’t crave the foods he cannot eat, or miss the booze he’s no longer allowed to drink.

After several years, Jeb begins to formulate a philosophy around this service he provides. Fulfillment, he concludes, can only come when you find your proper place in society. He writes a book, goes on a few talk-shows, and gives away some of his excrement pro bono to the poor suffering from C-Diff.

“We are their assholes,” he tells young providers. “That’s us up there, getting the grammy. That’s us telling the Iranian president to shove his piddly uranium where the sun don’t shine. That’s us creating all those jobs in Shenzhen.”

When Mr. Stuffs becomes addicted to coke and then hangs himself, Jeb begins to use his his old business partner as an example of what happens when you try to ascend to a place to which you don’t belong.

Jeb cultivates a silvery mustache and a quiet-speaking, calm demeanor that makes people feel comfortable asking him for his butt fudge. After a good fifteen years since he got into the business, he enters middle age with a nice house, a family, and a clear purpose.

Then, almost two decades since he walked out of Best Buy because he refused to sell an elderly woman on a smart phone that she didn’t know how to use, a scientist in Seattle successfully synthesizes A+ Universal Premium in the lab. Within a year, factories are going up around the world to provide the stuff at much lower prices than what Jeb can match. He loses old clients and stops attracting new clients.

He flushes a wasted feces down the toilet for the first time since he can remember.

Financially in fine shape but furious nonetheless, Jeb lobbies Washington to “stop feces industrialization,” touting the benefits of the bespoke field. But he gains no traction with either the politicians or the people. Once the face of change, he’s now an old man rattling against it. People quickly put him out of their minds.

He dies an angry, if still decently well-off, lonely divorcée in Florida, some three decades later.