In the summer of 2004, I pushed a small outhouse on three wheelbarrow wheels, with an inside to hold a cooler, through eight Canadian cities selling poopsicles – frozen, fair trade, organic bananas coated with dark chocolate – for three dollars each.

I used the poopsicle project to say to as many people as possible, “excuse me, I’d like to be heard.”

It worked. I made front page in a regional version of a national newspaper, was pitied in a Montreal editorial and told to grow up and get a real job by a writer of an Edmonton daily. I was on TV – the news in Edmonton and Calgary, and MuchMusic’s Speaker’s Corner.

My key message was simple, consume crap.

Nobody understood what I meant, though. I forget to say what’s in it for you.

The poopsicle project had so little stickiness in our collective conscious, I’d be surprised to find anything except for this blog entry on Google about the topic. Believe me, I’ve checked.

What I had wanted to say is your consumption of media, materials and meat controls the fate of this planet we’re all flying on. Tough shit, my friends, you have to monitor your consumption:

1. Learn the bias of mainstream media, whatever it is – the responsibility of opinion is that inevitably, it’s all propaganda. So, be aware of those who hold your attention.
2. Learn who sews the underwear ridding up your bum. As earnest as it sounds, you have a responsibility to those making the pieces of our material world.
3. Learn where the food’s coming from on its way to your belly. This includes: food miles, farm practices and family partnerships.

The clincher is, because you are aware of this responsibility, you will now and forever, feel a little guilty the next time you make a stupid decision like considering Fox, news; shopping at Wal-Mart; or, eating slave-grown bananas.

I made fifty poopsicles each time I pushed my prone to tipping poopmobile through the streets. I sold out my first day in Ottawa – the only time on tour – during gay pride.

I drove to Montreal and slept in my van in an area popular with crack addicts, adjacent to where I once lived. I was police-escorted off Mont Royal the next day to chants of poopsicle! poopsicle!’

I wheeled around Toronto’s city hall, the Queen’s park and street, but no one was there – except for my family.

I went to my hometown, St. Thomas, and was interviewed by the National Post.

The poopsicle project made appearances at Portage and Main in Winnipeg, Whyte Avenue in Edmonton and the Red Mile in Calgary. I finished in Vancouver with high expectations, but made little connection with the city.

I then stopped, packed the poopmobile in the back of my minivan, my home for the summer, drove across the Rockies with failing breaks to Edmonton, and put it in the corner of my apartment for two years. Its current home is a suburban garage.

Of course, I had grand designs for a poopsicle world tour, but the project simply didn’t have the legs to go viral.

I’ve often wondered, why? What prevented people from whispering poopsicle to each other? Why didn’t they bother to spread the implications of my message and its call to action?

The answer is three-fold:
• I had a lousy web presence,
• Not enough money,
• And, never fully explained the idea until now.

The Poopsicle does America, 2008? One million dollars and I’m in.

You can support the poopsicle project in three ways:

• Become a Poopsicle Pal
• Tell your friends about the poopsicle project (talk, call, e-mail, Facebook status update, link)
• Monitor your consumption.

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