I washed my face with shit for a week and the results were about what you’d expect

Since first signing up for Pinterest, I’ve seen countless pins promoting shit-based exfoliants and masques.

Dr. Angstrom H. ShitladourAccording to groundbreaking research by Dr. Angstrom Human Shitladour, shit takes away puffy eyes, minimizes cellulite, and removes traces of dignity leftover after the last time a reader smeared shit on their faces.

Dr. Shit’s 1982 study even states that it reduces anxiety.

With all these projected benefits up for grabs, I thought I’d give shit skincare a try, and later report the following scientifically valid, fact-based, peer reviewed anecdotes.

Though many prefer coarse shits for scrubs and face masks, they might only do this a few times per week. I wanted to use it everyday.

That is why I created a shit cloth wash rag using locally sourced human feces (which are 100% pure shit). I then added the recommended amount of warm, microwaved buttermilk to make several batches, allowed it to cool, and used it in place of my Neutrogena Nsecurity facewash for one week straight.

This is my shit face wash story

two geniuses who actually smeared shit on their face for health benefits

You might be wondering, who am I, and what gives me the right to take up your precious time yammering on about my own face?

Before I began my journey into the world of excrement skincare, I was already feeling pretty good about my skin. Yes, I had a few bumps, blackheads, and a Glasgow smile, but nothing major stood out to me. Overall, I was mostly insecure about the sunken, dead expression in my eyes. Was I supposed to rub shit in my eyes, too?

Day 1

Initially, I was a fan of using pure shit as a face wash. It made me feel awake and alive, as though I’d taken my recommended One-a-Day TerrorMax. I could also feel the shit caked in my pores.

However, as the day went on, I could feel my skin getting…shittier. When I looked in the mirror, I also noticed brown around my nose and T-zone.

Day 2

I noticed a lot more brownness on day 2, and that irritation had spread to the tops of my cheeks. On the plus side, the shit smell still woke me up fast, but I was not exactly happy with my “results” thus far.

Day 3

I feel like the shit makes my beauty mole different? I was applying sunscreen as I normally do and was spending about the same amount of time outside, yet my mole was swollen and inflamed to a proportion that is sure to steal the spotlight. Also, there are itchy red patches on the roof of my mouth.

Day 4

By day 4, I felt like the shit was making me look worse. My face was turning tan as the shit became a sort of foundation, and there were more bumps on my skin. I noticed something different about the scaly patches in my mouth and throat: The patches are flaking off, exposing weeping sores that ooze pus when I swallow.

Day 5


Things started to calm down on Day 5, so maybe my skin just needed to get used to the feces? Yet, I still wasn’t noticing any miraculous results. I also noticed that – even though I was getting a full 1.5 hours of sleep — my undereye circles looked darker. I am a teenage girl, not Emperor Palpatine!

Day 6

The scabs around my mouth are hardening, outlined by a row of glistening red beauty pox, and my nose looks cute. I won the genetic lottery, so even with shit smeared on my face, I am doing alright. Still, it looks like I might be having a slight allergic reaction to the organic peanut oils in this shit. My face looks like a burnt pizza, but I feel like Chanel.

Day 7

Is there a method to my madness? As you can see, there are some new scars on my face. I got this at a motor lodge when someone mistook me for a vagrant attacker. My skin was super sensitive, and like, couldn’t even – as I was pushed into a row of hot, freshly parked motorcycles. Also, I got the worst blackhead, right on the end of my nose. I look like a court jester!


Honestly, I didn’t mind using this face wash. My sensitive skin was triggered by the gluten in my donor’s diet, which can be curbed with a little lemon kiss, and a squirt of tea tree oil in the mix. Overall, it made my skin redder, drier, and increased the amount of bullshit already going wrong with my face. Also, I am pretty sure it didn’t complement mon parfum. On the plus side, it did make me feel more like an asshole!

Go ahead and try it, you filthy rotten animals.
“Go ahead and try it, you filthy rotten animals.”

Since it was cheap to make, and since we all have different skin types – this type of face wash may work better for someone whose skin takes to having shit smeared on it like an abused child’s watercolour. But, before you go ahead and give it a try, make sure to consult a doctor for a second opinion.

This story is brought to you proudly by Lebal Drocer, Inc.

shoo shoo on my she she


Serve the Servants

Atlanta– I exited my hotel room drunk, stoned, and very tired. I avoided eye contact with the front desk – sudden pangs of panic and anxiety – and stepped through sliding glass doors onto the avenue, where a Cadillac convertible waited for me.

Christ, I thought. They still make convertibles?

I looked at the two men in messy business attire, who earlier had said they wanted to “talk business,” and saw in their wild eyes that business was already miles away from this night. There they were, to get me.

“How in the fuck are you a-doin’,” the driver said. “I said how is it on this beautiful night we could stay inside? I said let’s get tore up and show Atlanta what it’s all about, and I knew the motherfucker we wanted, and I knew he was you. Get in.”

I hopped into the back seat and landed on a hard leather briefcase.

“Just kick that out your way,” said our passenger.

His face twisted open, exposing a rotten pallet, fuzzy with mold in the maw. It was the color of a cow’s tongue. His necktie flapped belligerently in the breeze, and he rocked his fat head over on one side. His eyes rolled back in his head and I thought he was about to puke, but then he blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was looking straight at me.

“You’re a fucking animal,” I said. “You’re a fucking beast. A monster. You’re the worst thing that ever happened to this country.”

He laughed, because of course, I was kidding. Just kidding around. I’m one of the boys.

“James, you’re pretty cool, man.”

We went out for drinks, to one of those smoky sewers where anywhere feels like a bathroom, at any time. I looked at the mirror behind the liquors into my own eyes, and for a moment I could not recognize myself. I felt alone. Even the barkeep wouldn’t look my way. Nothing felt real, but owed to the bleakness of this moment, I recall thinking that was for the best. I overheard a conversation about politics, and it filled me with hate. After some terrible attempts to make conversation, I gave up my efforts to serve the servants, and decided then was as good a time as any to give this meat to the dogs.

I said let’s go.

The driver slammed our rented Cadillac Eldorado into a curb and stalled on the sidewalk near the intersection of Broad Street and Martin Luther King. A man, apparently sleeping against some filthy garage door on the sidewalk, would have awoken to see the two men up front, breaking vials of cocaine into small lines, if not for their headlights pointed directly into his eyes. I remarked how the air was warm and smelled like rain. It was not a bad time for cocaine.

“This shit’s better in Jacksonville,” the passenger slurred. Using a manila folder, he stuck his head as deep into the v-shaped space over the dashboard as he could, and did his quickly. The driver did two lines off the wide center console. A breeze cut through the convertible, scattering some of the drug across the fine, exposed stitching in the leather. Neither seemed to notice they’d nearly run over a sleeping vagrant.

The waking man sat up with bleary eyes in the headlights. Squinting to see into the car, he smiled in solidarity with our apparent joyride. The driver started the car again, backed up so as not to hit a parking sign, and we drove deeper into the city. When we arrived, an argument ensued at the door.

“What do you mean he’s too drunk?” asked my subject. “Why, he isn’t drunk. This man is high on cocaine.”

I watched from the backseat of the car as a long-haired bouncer shook his head no, and pointed to me in the car. I read his lips. He assumed I was sober and told them to make me drive, so I got into the driver’s seat of the Eldorado. On their walk back to the car, the messy one put his arm around my subject, throwing the man’s arm over his own shoulder, which he then grabbed and twisted to flip my man into the backseat. On the way down his head hit the briefcase.

“Just move those slave papers out of your way,” I said. He laughed, and fell asleep.

I stole the papers.

Status Quo

Bank of America introduces “Whites Only” ATMs

CHARLOTTE, N.C.–A beleaguered Bank of America has rolled back its woefully misguided effort to foster racial calm, after a ‘segregated ATM’ pilot program failed to catch on outside of its Charlotte, North Carolina test branches or headquarters.

Dr. Cornel West came out against the ATMs on the basis of mendacity, stating the program has grotesque racist, classist overtones.

BofA President Richmond T. Skaers said he noticed that he felt much safer in his gated neighborhood, where others do not bother him, and wants every Bank of America customer to feel the same way, away from each other.

“Before 1865, racism wasn’t an issue. After that, we had to have signs. Was that racist? You tell me,” Skaers said. “I’m COLORBLIND. Then they made us take the signs down. Well, I say fuck that. Bank of America just got great again. The signs went back up, and several ATMs around Charlotte were reintroduced to non-whites, after being modified to meet the specific needs of an increasingly entitled customer base, known as Second Class Citizens. I’m sorry a few snowflakes didn’t like that.”

Bank of America: Automated teller machines were retrofitted with beautiful, vintage, turn of the century signage, along with other consumer-oriented enhancements.
Bank of America: Automated teller machines were retrofitted with beautiful, vintage, turn of the century signage, along with other consumer enhancements.

“I wish the machines were a little further apart,” admitted stay-at-home mom Mary Whittlesworth, “If I want to spend my husband’s money, I still have to stand next to…them, and right away, I can tell something ain’t right.”

Dan Roiland, a 39-year-old Lincolnton High School teacher from North Carolina said his bank refused to install the segregated ATMs after realizing the cost of maintaining two ATMs would be higher than the sum total of anything his scumfuck hick town might pull in, so he is now banking with the Ku Klux Kredit Union down the street, a bank that works exclusively with master races to build pure white communities.

“Fuck everyone else.”

— Dan Roiland, Rebel

Looking forward, BofA says it is rethinking its strategy to appease racial unrest, and has signaled a possible shift to a form of scrip, as a specialized currency intended to create a healthier relationship between certain people and their money.