"I have heard you poop. When you sit down on the toilet, public or private, I am there. I hear every plip, every spurt, every rectal raspberry, every clenching groan, every strained squeeze, every splash, sploosh, and ploop as you rid yourself of waste. You think pooping is a private thing, but it's not, because I'm there. "Not literally, of course. I'm only one man, I can't be everywhere at once. But I know all those sounds. I've heard them. I've made them. They aren't secrets. And because I know what pooping sounds like, I know what you sound like when you poop. Your pooping is known to me.
"Yes, be ashamed! Be embarrassed! Exhibit how awkward you are around the entirely natural act of pooping, one of the few truly ubiquitous experiences there are. It is us at our most truly human, and yet we hide it! Your unenlightened shame puts you at a disadvantage, and you cannot stand in my way."
The doorman looked up at the neon nightclub sign, the long line of clubgoers to his left, and the man addressing him. "Yeah, I'm still not letting you in."
"Shit head," the man said, and walked away.