Tom Cruise's Shit Don't Stink

ccording to a troubling new study published today, Canadian scientists have found the shit of American actor Tom Cruise to be totally lacking in the offensive odor usually associated with common man-scat. The discovery raises a host of disturbing questions, not the least of which is what Canadian scientists were doing smelling Cruise's shit in the first place.

"We've long suspected Mr. Cruise might have descended from a higher odor of stenchless man, and these findings have merely confirmed the innate superiority we've long gathered from Tom's demeanor and public statements," explained Dr. Remus Rooney of the Manitoba Center for Deep Thinking. The center, housed in a building once famously occupied by vice pioneer Brooks McNally's "assembly-line" brothel during WWII, is known around the world for investigating questions of general scientific interest such as what those letters on zipper tabs mean and why some people insist on calling it "double-yew double-yew eye eye."

"When Tom looks at you, you can just tell his shit doesn't stink," added Rooney. "And now we have the research to back it up."

But how did this unusual study come about?

"Tom contacted us, actually," elaborated Dr. Rooney. "He was concerned that the cigar boxes of shit he was mailing to a local rival might not be having the intended effect, and sure enough it turns out the guy was using the stuff to insulate his house."

Rooney is careful to point out that Cruise's fecal matter is not odorless, which would just be creepy, but rather carries the robust odor of roasted almonds, a scent most who come in contact with the shit find pleasing. Through a series of tests at the Manitoba Center, Cruise's diet, lifestyle and religious practices are being examined as scientists attempt to probe the inner workings of the sweet-smelling actor.

"I hear he eats nothing but honeydew melons and bee larvae," insisted local roughneck Denny Lopez. "No shit. Or whatever they make that bee jelly out of. That shit's expensive. Damn but I'd like to get me some. My shit stink like death, yo."

"The defining characteristic of shit is that it stinks," explained leading fecalogist Roger Burns. "Which is what makes this case so unusual. If it doesn't stink, is it still shit? Or is Mr. Cruise instead shitting out something else? And if this is the case, is he still shitting it out, or do we need to come up with another verb for defecating a substance through one's anus? This is truly a heady day for science."

"Just a sec, I gotta take a shit," added Burns, excusing himself.

"Why don't you leave one instead?" countered Dr. Rooney, in jest. Both doctors chuckled heartily.

"That one never gets old," admitted Burns.

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Heavens to mergatroid! Camembert is missing!

I wish this was in jest, good people. Instead it's injust. As in unfair, to clarify my brilliant play on phrasing. It's not fair that he should turn up missing and almost certainly dead so soon after everything started going so well.

Just a few weeks ago we began the exciting "Win A Dream Date with Camembert" contest, to which we've had a modest response you could say, "miserable" if you were Camembert himself, and shortly after that we received a new roommate in the form of my friend/guru Lee. Lee and Camembert got along famously, the way Madonna and Courtney Love do. At least they did, until Camembert turned up missing.

This is disaster, like that Pearl Harbor. The movie, not the bombing.Things were going so well for Camembert, or at least for me as his roommate, and I planned on bringing him along for the ride, too. Why did this, whatever has happened, have to happen now? Why not tomorrow? Though I guess that would have been pretty dismal, too.

Plainly stated, I came home from work at the commune days ago and could not find Camembert anywhere. He's pretty easy to find, he breathes loudly and sweats profusely when trying to hide. Plus, without being insulting the disabled as I've been accused of in the past, let's just say his wheelchair doesn't exactly fit into too many hiding spots. Camembert was gone, his wheelchair was gone, Lee was gone—

Lee! Piss on my lunch, I forgot entirely about Lee! Oh, well, Lee can take care of himself. Camembert cannot, and I have argued such at his disability hearings.

There is no telling what has happened. Camembert could be dead by now… or worse. It's a peculiar game. Why would someone kidnap Camembert, fence his wheelchair (as I'm assuming they would do; I would) and then not send a ransom note to me? Maybe they realize I have no money. What insulting pricks! I could raise the money for a ransom if I wanted to. They could have at least sent the note to me, inquiring if I could raise the money. Not that I'd gladly go into hock to save Camembert or anything, but for them just to assume I couldn't raise the money, that's just what I'd expect from an asshole who'd kidnap Camembert.

As I said, it makes no sense. I'm not sure what to do at this point. The man who rang up my breakfast at the donut place suggested I go to the cops and report him missing. No… that's just what they expect me to do. I've seen movies like this before, the last thing you do is go to the police, they always believe you're a liar or you're joking with them about seeing the alien or something. I think that was the kidnapping movie. Anyway, it's clear what I have to do: disguise myself and infiltrate the kidnapping organization and rescue Camembert. And, if possible, the wheelchair.

Wait! Do you think the fact Lee is missing could be related? Mother of mercy, it gets wilder and wilder all the time. It's like a puzzle wrapped in a riddle tucked inside an enigma buried under a heaping pile of what the fuck. It's a question I may never find the answer to. Whoever created this monster has put a face on a devil, confounded me with a mystery I can't—is this Monday or Friday?

Oh. It occurs to me Lee mentioned something about going to Mexico on some top secret mission I couldn't be informed about, something to do with buying marijuana and smuggling it back into the states inside a cooler full of dead fish, though I'm not sure of the details. So I suppose it's possible that's where he's at. And what the hell, for the sake of easing my conscience, let's say he took Camembert's van with Camembert inside.

That makes me feel much better. Except for the fact those two shits are living the high life in Mexico while I'm stuck here on a suck-ass Monday morning.

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You know me, I don't like formalities. Let's get right to what's on my mind this minute.

Do you remember in grade school, those cafeteria lunches where they used to hand out a rectangle of pizza? I never got mine.

The best thing you can do in this world is to make your enemy a friend. If you can't do that, kill his pets while he sleeps. Hopefully he'll get the message.

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night. Boy, that was a weird dream.

Why is that some remote controls you have to point right at the TV, and others you can point them anywhere and they work. I don't know the specifications of remote control airwaves ownership, but they should make all remote controls like that.

The world's greatest dancer is that Riverdance guy, no question. Kill him, who's left? Really?

You know, if I were to suddenly die tomorrow, I doubt any of my friends would be surprised.

If you got the chance to pick your own nickname, what would it be? Wait—don't jump the gun too soon. Remember, this will have to last you forever. Unless you change it.

I wonder why they didn't decide to call it Kraft Cheese & Macaroni. Seriously, this keeps me up at night. I'm not sleeping well.

I'm going to buy a houseboat. Then I'll get boat owner's insurance and homeowner's insurance. Then, God forbid, I get torpedoed by a lost German sub still fighting the war, I can get paid twice.

You know what I really like? Loose women.

If I could have any band write me a theme song and play it for me everywhere I go, I would choose the Ventures. You know, Hawaii 5-O. Who's better than that, you tell me?

They say loose lips sink ships, but poor hull maintenance does it just as well.

Technically, if you take some video of your nephew falling off a slide, aren't you an independent filmmaker? I believe so, but try telling that to those assholes at Sundance.

I wonder when we're going to get that technology that verifies your identity by lasering your retina, for security purposes. A lot of people have been making long-distance calls on my line lately.

I had lunch at Great Expectations the other day. It wasn't so good.

As an artist, would it personally offend you if your entire catalogue of albums was remastered? It either implies they weren't mastered correctly to begin with or they somehow got reckless over the years and needed to be reigned in. Could you go back and put a harmonica on every track, would that qualify as remastering? Or is that a remix?

Hoot. That's what my nickname would be.

Sometimes I think I'm still paying for the sins of man in the Garden. You know the Garden, that Chinese place on Fifteenth Street. I was smoking in the non-smoking section and got banned.

That's all for this presentation. I'm off to hunt cashews in the wild. I wish you the best of luck, as long as it's not mine.

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