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Zum Bum: An Autobiography

My name is Zum Bum. Some call me a hero. But listen, I’m just doing my job.

In my line of work, I’ve seen some stuff. Dark stuff. Depraved, unspeakable stuff that the weak of heart (or of schnozz) should never have to see or sniff.

The human body amazes me. It is a remarkable carbon-based machine. It can procreate, heal itself, and think.

And man, can it stink.

So what do I do? I guess you could say I’m in forensics…I deal with crime scenes, so to speak. Real ugly aftermaths. It’s my duty to clean up after yours. I’m #1 in the world’s #2 industry.

It’s happened to every single one of us. We’ve all taken a gamble and lost. We’ve all overindulged at our favorite food trucks, alas, at great cost. We’ve all dropped the kids off at the pool, and, albeit with much hesitation, saw the Browns off to the Super Bowl. Go, team.

It’s GI karma. What comes around, goes around. (With a courtesy flush, please and thanks.) And while we’re only human, that not-so-fresh feeling has our panties beggin’ us for mercy. Liberate those undies from oppressive odor regimes. Viva la Zum Bumrevolucion.

The method is brilliantly simple. Just shake me up and squirt a few rounds on your TP wad. Wipe accordingly, and then experience the refreshing tingle of a gift that truly keeps on giving.

For best results, encore the show with a few sprays of your favorite Zum Mist to clear the air of eau de derriere.

No one will never know. Just try to subdue that smug smile on your way out of the loo.

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