By the unexpected chance of a series of sudden events, Dylan and I found ourselves caught all up in Paris on Bastille day along with a million other people there to soon enjoy what would eventually amount to be one of the greatest fireworks display experiences of our lives ever, second only to perhaps Burning Man, the one before last year’s.

While we anyway before the show were riding the streetside tide of hundreds of thousands of locals and tourists alike, we saw a nearby happy woman in a short flouncy dress skipping with great carefree jauntiness hand in hand with probably her lover or boyfriend or husband.

Scrutinizing her with an air of compassion and delicacy, Dylan said, “That woman has a very unfortunate… stain upon the hem of her dress.”

I looked at the place addressed and indeed there was a stain that was exactly as unfortunate as Dylan described. The immodest markings were of a clearly fecal variety and devastating in their public visibility. Everything was in keeping with what might happen if a person not wearing an adequacy of underwear enacted Biological Business #2, didn’t wipe completely or properly, sat upon the hem of their short flouncy skirt and then at some sorrowful subsequent point walked rapturously round again.

“Hm,” I said carefully, “It is looking a bit—a-‘poo’-calyptic down there.”

Dylan said, “I’m not im-‘poo’-ressed.”

I said, “She likely won’t win any ‘poo’-pularity contests.”

When the poo puns ran dry, the rest of our company ignored us while we descended into a shared experience of giggling like retards.