This is the United Nations, the center of global diplomacy. Countries from all over the world gather here to bicker about their differences and get nothing accomplished. This may seem like a huge waste of time, but it’s actually much better than the alternative, which is World War III.
Yes, it would be very bad. Every human would die, and the Earth would become a radioactive cinder. World War III is one of the worst things that could happen.
No, it would be very bad. Every human would die, and the Earth would become a radioactive cinder. World War III is one of the worst things that could happen.
You are the U.N. secretary-general, the director of the United Nations. This is you.
Running the United Nations is a challenging job, but you know how important your work is. Without your tireless diplomatic efforts, World War III could erupt at any moment.
This is the start of a new day, and it’s bound to be a stressful one. You have just enough time for a soothing chamomile tea before you talk to world leaders and try to delay nuclear holocaust a little bit longer.
Soon the weight of the world will be on your shoulders, but right now, for one brief moment, you can revive your spirits with the calming taste of chamomile.
The second you swallow the tea your bowels seize up in knots. Number one and number two are stirring through your guts like a pair of incestuous pythons, angrily slamming against the walls of your intestine and bladder. What the hell did you just drink?
Oh no. You wanted to make chamomile tea, but must have grabbed the wrong box. You have to find a bathroom, fast.
Maybe you should do a little diplomacy first though, before you visit the toilet. You’ve already left the world unattended while you had your tea, and there’s no telling what mischief the countries are getting themselves into.
Diplomacy can wait five minutes. You desperately waddle straight to the bathroom.
While you’re in the bathroom, World War III occurs, and a nuclear shockwave obliterates New York City, which is where the United Nations headquarters is. You are instantly killed without even realizing there’s a problem. Soon every other city on Earth is also erased by nuclear hellfire.
Within minutes, a global population of billions is reduced to millions. The survivors struggle on for several decades, their numbers continually dwindling due to radiation sickness and famine caused by nuclear winter. The few that survive are often infertile from constant background irradiation.
Fifty years after World War III, fewer than 100,000 humans remain alive on the face of the Earth, surviving in scattered hunter-gatherer tribes. They eke out a tough existence on the toxic husk of the Earth, but even those hardened nomad bands are slowly killed off by the inhospitable wasteland.
Five hundred years after World War III, only two humans are left on Earth, a mother and her son. They live on the outskirts of the radioactive ruin of what was once called Cincinnati, eating cockroaches to survive. She dies of cancer when the boy is 10 years old. He lives the rest of his life alone on a dead planet, making up imaginary friends to keep himself company. He dies at the age of 49 from an untreated tooth infection.
This tragic fate befell humanity because you couldn’t hold in your feces for a few minutes before using the bathroom. It didn’t have to be this way.
You visit the conference room where ambassadors hang out to argue with each other. “Good morning, Mr. Secretary-General,” the diplomats greet you in unison.
Your stomach is rumbling like a blender full of rocks. You really need to wrap up this diplomacy stuff, pronto.
You deliver a long and eloquent speech on the importance of diplomacy, ignoring the furious writhing of your intestine. Unfortunately, you take too long. As soon as your finish speaking, your colon erupts in a geyser of shit. Liquid rivers of warm dung flow down your pant leg, over your shoes, and spread across the floor like the Exxon Valdez spill.
“Hey, the secretary-general just shit his pants!” screams the Belgian ambassador.
“Whoa, what a loser!” shouts the Japanese ambassador. “We used to respect him, but he can’t even keep his crap inside his body where it belongs.”
“All these years, we’ve listened to him when he told us that World War III would be bad,” says the Chilean ambassador. “But now that we know he’s actually an idiot who shits his pants, what if that means World War III would be good?”
Excited murmurs start to fill the room. “Yeah, World War III!” “The Big War!” “World War III would be good!” “Nukes nukes nukes nukes!”
The ambassadors ignore your desperate pleas and phone their home countries to tell them to start World War III. It doesn’t take long before a nuclear shockwave reduces the United Nations to radioactive ash, and you with it.
The French ambassador clears his throat. “Yes, we are about to go to war with our hated enemy England.”
Uh-oh, he’s lifting weights. This is a traditional form of diplomatic saber rattling that countries use to show their power. If he’s doing exercise at the United Nations, that means armed conflict could erupt between France and England at any second.
“The arrogant and imperialistic British have been hogging Stonehenge all for themselves. Why do they get to own Stonehenge? They didn’t even build Stonehenge, it was druids a long time ago. France should get a turn owning Stonehenge. If not, we have no choice but to start World War III.”
The diplomats watch you in puzzled silence as you struggle to control your spastic bowels. After a few perilous seconds you manage to resist defecating, for at least a little bit longer.
The English ambassador scoffs disdainfully. “How dare the devious French try to take our Stonehenge, when they’ve been selfishly hoarding the Eiffel Tower all to themselves for years. If France wants to do World War III, England welcomes the chance to best them in a contest of nukes. After we win, we’ll bring the Eiffel Tower to London where it belongs.”
With your blessing, England and France begin lobbing nuclear weapons at each other, destroying both Stonehenge and the Eiffel Tower, as well as all their cities and buildings and people.
The destruction of two countries would be bad enough, but England and France were both NATO signatories. As soon as they went to war, that invoked Article 5 of the NATO treaty, which declares that an attack against one NATO member is an attack against all and must be responded to with military action. All the other NATO members fulfill their obligations to defend England and France from England and France by bombing England and France. Attacking England and France invokes Article 5 of NATO again, which forces all the NATO nations to start bombing all the NATO nations that attacked England and France, including themselves.
You are killed in a nuclear explosion when the United States retaliates against the United States by bombing the United States.
Knowing that your bowels could evacuate the entire frozen package of hot dogs you ate this morning at any moment, you have to propose a peace treaty between England and France on how to equitably divide Stonehenge and the Eiffel Tower, and pronto!
The British ambassador falls silent for a long moment, then takes a nude photo of the queen out of his briefcase. “This photo of the queen’s glorious bare body is one of England’s most treasured possessions,” he says gravely, handing it to the French ambassador. “England will not trade it for anything less precious than the Eiffel Tower.”
The French ambassador examines the photo for a few seconds. “She looks pretty good for her age,” he says with utter solemnity.
The British ambassador nods. “Yeah, she’s in her nineties. Not bad at all.”
The two ambassadors shake hands, signaling a new era of peace between their countries. Now that you’ve averted war, nothing stops you from running to the bathroom.
“The Mona Lisa is one of France’s most valued treasures,” says the French ambassador in a hushed and reverent tone. “We stole that painting from the Italians, and it’s ours now. Until now, we’ve had a policy to never paint on the Mona Lisa, but we would break that rule in exchange for Stonehenge.”
“Manchester United rules!” shouts the English ambassador. “They kick the ball very well. We’d be honored to have Mona Lisa become a fan of Manchester.”
The two ambassadors shake hands, signaling a new era of peace between their countries. Now that you’ve averted war, nothing stops you from running to the bathroom.
You sprint toward the toilets, using every ounce of willpower to contain the furious contents of your twitching asshole. The door of the U.N.’s bathroom beckons to you like a lighthouse in a storm.
You stride triumphantly toward the toilets, ready to drop your pants and destroy the plumbing. There’s no time to spare either, because shit is ramming against your sphincter like Vikings at the castle gates.
There are four stalls in this bathroom. Which one do you want to use?
Wow, you just offended a Nobel Prize winner, and you still have a runaway brown train chugging down your colon, next stop sphincter junction. And without your guidance, World War III could break out in the general assembly at any time. Better make this quick!
Which stall do you want to use?
You open the door to the first stall, and a young woman sitting on the toilet shrieks in alarm.
“Excuse me, this stall is occupied!” screams Malala Yousafzai. “What the fucking hell is wrong with you? Can’t a Nobel Prize winner take a dump in peace?”
“Well, fucking knock next time! Now get lost, so I can finish up in here and get back to a conference on the importance of women’s education in the developing world.”
The Dalai Lama is sitting on the toilet. “Suffering must be our teacher, not our master,” he says while smiling at you benevolently. There is a quiet continuous sound of trickling urine.
“You are filled with sorrow,” says the Dalai Lama. “Instead, be joyous, for the world’s beauty is all around you!” Urine continues to steadily trickle.
“Our needs and wants are roadblocks on the path to nirvana.” The sound of urine slows down to intermittent spurts, and eventually stops entirely. Five quiet seconds pass as the Dalai Lama smiles at you. Then suddenly urine starts pouring again twice as loud as before.
You drop your pants and seat your bare ass on the Dalai Lama’s naked thighs. In response, the Buddhist spiritual leader calmly takes a can of mace out of his robes and pepper-sprays you in the eyes.
The world is a painful blur. You try to fumble your way to the sinks to wash the pepper spray from your stinging eyes, but instead accidentally wander out of the bathroom into the U.N.’s hallway, right in front of an elementary school tour group.
There are shocked gasps and giggles from the students as you waddle around with your fallen pants, reluctantly shitting a breadcrumb trail of turds behind you.
Police handcuff you and throw you in the back of a squad car. You face some pretty serious charges. Shitting in front of minors will get you put on the sex offender registry, which will get you fired from your job at the United Nations and make it impossible to ever get employed again.
However, you’re never charged for your crimes. On your way to the police station, World War III happens, and you’re disintegrated by a nuclear explosion.
Former Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi is sitting on the toilet. “Occupied,” says the brutal tyrant. “My bad, I should have locked the door.”
“No, they only killed one of my body doubles,” says Gaddafi. “I was at the United Nations for a diplomatic summit when my government was overthrown, so I decided to lay low and live in the bathroom here.”
“Sure, help yourself,” says Gaddafi as he stands and pulls up his pants. “Heads up, though, I just dropped a monster deuce, and this toilet is completely clogged. Sorry about that.”
The odor from the toilet is absolutely horrendous. Gaddafi’s dump smells like a combination of dog sweat and spoiled cheesecake. You flick the handle a few times, but it doesn’t flush. You definitely do not want to sit on top of that mess, but you need a toilet and you’re getting desperate.
You sit down on top of the steaming dung and defecate. It’s pretty gross feeling the polluted Gaddafi-water splash up against your ass cheeks, but at least you get rid of your diarrhea.
You have succeeded in using the toilet for five minutes without World War III breaking out, so congratulations! Technically, you win! On the downside, you get all kinds of weird diseases from exposure to Gaddafi’s shit, which is to be expected from someone who slept with thousands of prostitutes and sex slaves over four decades. A few hours after using the bathroom you start hemorrhaging blood from your anus and then die. After your death, there’s nobody around to prevent World War III, and humanity is eradicated by nuclear warfare.
If you’re okay with this, you can quit now and consider this a victory, but maybe there’s a way to take a shit and also prevent World War III from happening at all.
You open the door and find Bill Gates sitting on the toilet, but not actually defecating. The toilet lid is down, and Bill Gate’s pants are up.
The billionaire philanthropist is lost in thought and doesn’t notice you enter.
“Oh, hello, Secretary-General,” says Bill Gates. “No, I don’t need to use the bathroom. I just came here to think about all the strides the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation has made in the fight against malaria. The bathroom is one of my favorite quiet places to think about doing charity.”
“Sure, of course you can use this toilet,” says Bill Gates. “Unfortunately, not everyone on Earth has a toilet. And other unfortunate people have malaria, a serious and sometimes deadly disease spread by mosquitoes. There are over 200 million cases of malaria each year. It’s an enduring problem that I hope to fix in my lifetime.”
“Oh right, you need to use the toilet,” says Bill Gates. “I forgot because I was talking about malaria, a serious disease endemic in tropical climates. Combating malaria will require a threefold approach: 1) reducing mosquito populations by eliminating standing water sources and employing judicious use of pesticides; 2) developing effective drugs and vaccines to protect at-risk populations from malaria; 3) employing barriers such as mosquito nets to prevent contact between humans and mosquitos.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I will get off the toilet immediately so you can use it,” says Bill Gates while remaining seated on the toilet. “Diarrhea is also one of the symptoms of malaria, a serious disease that is sometimes fatal. Other symptoms of malaria include fever and vomiting. Over half a million people die each year from malaria, a grim annual toll that is too often ignored in the Western world.
“The good news is that the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation has made huge strides against malaria, reducing deaths by 20 percent since the year 2000. Our scientists have made promising breakthroughs experimenting with recombinant protein-based vaccines, and we intend to keep funding grants to pursue that area of research.
“Eradicating malaria is a long-term goal, but an attainable one, that will require ongoing cooperation between government health departments and NGOs. By the way, didn’t you say you needed to use the toilet? Sorry, I got distracted talking about malaria.”
Bill Gates stands up and gestures at the toilet. “It’s all yours.”
You shit your pants because you let Bill Gates ramble on about malaria for too long. There’s no way you can conduct diplomacy like this. None of the ambassadors will take you seriously if you have sopping-wet shit legs. You have no choice but to go shopping for a new pair of pants.
You and your befouled pants squeeze onto a packed subway train. The other straphangers give you disgusted looks and inch away.
In your worst nightmares you never dreamed that you, the secretary-general of the world’s most esteemed diplomatic institution, could become a social pariah stinking up a train car. You pray the subway gets to your stop quickly so you can reach Macy’s and buy clean pants as soon as possible.
You’re traveling through a tunnel when the subway comes to a screeching halt. The lights flicker, and the car shakes as the ground trembles.
The train conductor’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Sorry passengers, this train is experiencing service delays because World War III just happened on the surface and everyone up there is dead. Thank you for your patience.”
You climb a service ladder to the street level and behold the grim aftermath of World War III. Charred corpses litter the streets amidst burning rubble. This is the exact kind of situation you tried to warn people about when you said World War III would be bad.
Fortunately, you managed to survive doomsday and become a nomadic scavenger. You spend the rest of your grueling life searching through the radioactive ruins of civilization for canned food and bugs to eat. However, in all your decades of wandering the nuclear wasteland, you never find a clean pair of pants.
“Don’t worry, I’ll squish it!” shouts Bill Gates. He runs out to the United Nations parking lot, hops into his car, and drives into your car at 90 mph, totaling both vehicles.
Bill Gates dizzily climbs out of the wreckage of his car. He has a long gash bleeding on his forehead where it hit the steering wheel. “I don’t see the mosquito,” he shouts out in warning. “I think it got away. Don’t let it bite you, or you might get malaria!”
You’ve successfully tricked Bill Gates into leaving the toilet.
You drop your pants and lower yourself down. The ring of the toilet seat feels cool and refreshing on your buttocks.
Just as you prepare to tense your colon and expel all the filth within, there is a loud commotion from outside the bathroom. You hear angry shouting. Someone screams, “If World War III is what you want, then World War III is what you’re gonna get!”
The shouting seems to be coming from the U.N. main assembly hall. Summoning all your willpower to clench your ass cheeks shut, you waddle over to investigate.
George Clooney rushes over to you when you enter the assembly hall. “You’ve come just in time, Secretary-General,” says the actor/human rights activist. “We were having a routine diplomatic conference on Syrian refugee resettlement when the United States and Russian ambassadors totally lost it. They’ve been screaming at each other that they’re going to start World War III. You’ve got to do something!”
George Clooney’s mouth twists in a slight frown. “Thanks. Yeah, ‘Ocean’s Eleven’ is a pretty good movie. Anyway, World War III is about to happen, so you should probably go deal with that.”
“Sure. We hang out sometimes,” says George Clooney as he pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes in frustration. He takes a deep sigh. “Look, there’s a serious geopolitical situation occurring right now. Humanity might get wiped out by atomic warfare unless you take immediate action. I’d be happy to talk to you about ‘Ocean’s Eleven’ later.”
“No, I’m not autographing anything. Secretary-General, I appreciate that you’re a fan of ‘Ocean’s Eleven.’ However, right now, you need to focus on preventing war between the United States and Russia. If they unleash their nuclear arsenal, the entire planet could be…Oh my god, are you shitting? You just shit your pants! What the fuck?”
The nuclear shockwave rips through the United Nations, instantly reducing both you and George Clooney to piles of ash. Your ashes get a little mixed up with George Clooney’s ashes, which is pretty cool.
You approach the U.S. ambassador and discover he’s displaying his muscles in an intimidating pose, a traditional diplomatic ploy used to intimidate enemy nations.
“Russia better watch out, because the United States has nukes,” he screams while kissing his bicep. “We can shoot the nukes into the sky so they land on Russia, and it will not be pretty for them!”
“No, it’s America that better watch out,” shouts back the Russia ambassador while individually flexing his pectoral muscles, so it looks like his breasts are dancing. “Because Russia has nukes, and we can shoot those nukes right up into the sky so they land on the United States, and the U.S. will not enjoy the nukes, no sireee!”
“It’s because Russia keeps hogging our mutually shared atomic bomb,” says the U.S. ambassador, gesturing at a nuclear warhead sitting against the wall.
“We wanted to keep atomic bombs in the U.N. to threaten each other, but atomic bombs are pretty big,” explains the Russian ambassador. “So we brought in one atomic bomb and shared it to save space.”
“Yeah, and Russia keeps turning their key,” complains the U.S. ambassador. “There are two keys to activate the nuclear bomb, and we each have one. It’s so much fun to turn the keys, but we can’t do it at the same time or the countdown starts.”
“I only was turning my key because you were turning your key,” counters the Russian ambassador. “Why should you get to have all the fun of turning a key?”
“Well, I was only turning my key because you were turning your key,” says the U.S. ambassador. “And because of this dope turning his key when I turned my key, now the bomb is going to detonate in 60 seconds.”
“No, it’s your fault the bomb is going to detonate in 60 seconds,” says the Russian ambassador. “You turned your key when I turned my key.”
“Yeah, it’s going to blow us all up, and then we’re going to get revenge on each other by doing World War III,” says the U.S. ambassador.
“Too bad there’s no way to defuse the bomb,” says the Russian ambassador. “The only design flaw this bomb has is that it shuts off if it gets wet and dirty, but that’s no help to us.”
How will you stop the nuclear bomb? You know that whatever you decide now will be a final, irrevocable choice. The fate of the world hangs in the balance.
Diplomats from all nations gather to watch as you strip off your clothes and seat your bare ass down on the nuclear bomb. Then you open the floodgates, unleashing a tsunami of hot diarrhea all over the nuke.
After an initial vanguard of liquid shit, you start spraying the bomb with your urine while simultaneously releasing several pounds of moist turds with the consistency of brownie bites floating in dog food. The bowel-movement noise from your fluttering asshole is a cacophonous roar that sounds like the MGM lion getting blown up during a Fourth of July fireworks show.
All this fecal waste drips down into the nuclear bomb’s inner mechanism. The countdown timer stops with one second remaining.
The ambassadors from all the world’s nations give your massive dump a standing ovation. “Bravo, Secretary-General,” they shout. “By shitting on the nuclear bomb, you eloquently illustrated how messy and unpleasant nuclear war would be!” “We used to think World War III might be good, but you shit on a bomb, and that visual metaphor explained that World War III would be bad.”
The diplomats set aside their differences and that afternoon sign a peace treaty to forever prevent World War III from happening. You go down in history as the greatest secretary-general the United Nations has ever known, and a giant bronze statue of you taking your historic shit is installed in the lobby of the United Nations.
With the horrendous sounds of metal screeching on stone tiles, you struggle to push the nuclear bomb through the halls of the United Nations. Diplomats watch in awe as you shove the heavy lump of steel and plutonium down to the river and tip it into the water.
The nuclear bomb plops down into the murky water and sinks out of view. Sixty seconds pass, and nothing happens. The dirty river water must have deactivated the bomb.
All the ambassadors bow in terror before you. “Please don’t hurt us, strong Secretary-General,” they beg. “We saw you push the bomb into the river, and you were so muscular and mighty as you shoved that bomb. It must have weighed over 200 pounds. You’ve intimidated all the nations of the world. Spare our lives, and we’ll worship you as king of Earth.”
“You’re king now,” insist the ambassadors as they place a crown upon your head. “We’re fearful of your mighty power, so you get to rule the whole planet now. That’s the way diplomacy works.”
“Our king is fallible! Look at his ass! Something most foul gushes from within!” the diplomats shout, and immediately begin fighting with each other, clawing at each other’s eyes and nasal cavities.
“If our king can shit his pants, what hope do we have for fostering peace across the globe?” the diplomat from Canada screams. The rabid diplomats, unhinged by seeing you debase yourself so completely and pathetically, begin calling in nuclear airstrikes at random in their apoplectic frenzy.
Damn! You were so close to avoiding World War III. As the nuclear bombs rain down, you most definitely regret shitting your pants.