It’s February, and you know what that means: Greasy fried chicken Black History Valentine’s Day Bangin’! What? Didn’t you hear? Fried chicken and collard greens aren’t racist anymore, which is good because some assholes in white robes have been throwing buckets of Colonel at my house ever since I brought that black chick home, and it has been attracting coyotes, who have in turn been absconding with the neighbors’ cats.

Most black people were under the assumption that attributing a love of fried chicken to African Americans indicated a racist mindset. They were dead wrong, as it turns out. Over at NBC, the cafeteria is celebrating Black History Month by offering “fried chicken, collard greens, and jalapeno cornbread for lunch… every Thursday.” Questlove, whose band The Roots has been reduced to Eubanksing for Jimmy Fallon and would not, apparently, rather be homeless, got his panties in a bunch over it and NBC’s management shit kittens before taking the menu down. Some upper management dude Twatted: “The sign in the NBCU cafeteria has been removed. We apologize for anyone who was offended by it.” Anyone apparently meaning the completely irreplaceable band leader for a totally irreplaceable ultra-late talk show host. Anyone remember when being someone’s boss was fun?

However, in a twist you just can’t make up, the woman who actually chose and cooked the selection appeared in a video completely flabbergasted by the hullabaloo – - and she’s black! Awesome. Chef Leslie Calhoun says, “February is black history month, so we always been tryin’ to get somethin’ goin’ on,” and she been axin’ and axin’ and axin’ about it and finally dis year they let her pick a special menu in honor of you-peoples’ holiday… s. And she is surprised and disappointed “that someone would take offense of it.” Suck it, Questlove. Black people like their fried chicken, and they don’t have to hide it any more. An admitted black woman put fried chicken on the menu to celebrate Black History Month, and you pretended you weren’t excited. I must say the article didn’t mention if the drummer complained before or after he had three helpings. Still, it makes sense. You don’t hear the Irish bitching that every meal on St. Patrick’s Day includes mostly potatoes, even though culturally our very genetics are tired of them after not being able to eat anything else for a long time. We’re still working on watermelon, weed, and purple drink, Leslie, but maybe next year.

Speaking of shit black people love, February 14th is a very special day… for White Castle. Seems you can make a reservation at any of their multitudinous locations on cell-phone buying day to “indulge in a romantic candlelight dinner,” and never get laid again. Unless you move out of the state and change your name, maybe grow some facial hair. When you show up for this date, bring flowers and Sôcôla’s Beer and Bacon Chocolate Truffles, because if she agreed to any part of this, she’ll probably die over this if she isn’t disappointed she didn’t get to kill the pig herself. I don’t know what your girlfriend will find more romantic: getting their Valentine’s meal in individual boxes, or alternating with you all night on the can with stock-piled military grade Febreeze. The marketing department, in it’s defense, has probably never actually eaten at a White Castle (When asked, one said, “gross, dude”), so is probably not aware that a visit to the restaurant is an exercise in intestinal masochism. “We’ll even upload a photo of your romantic rendezvous to our website,” which, after V-day, will serve as The National Sex Offenders Registry website for undatable men*. After the ludicrous suggestion that you bring a Valentine’s date to White Castle, the website has the balls to suggest: “Get your sweetie some Craver Gear. And maybe they’ll slip into something a little more comfortable.” Like their car, to get the tits out of Dodge, and go to a place that recognizes the term “insult to rectal injury.”

For some reason, dropping Cosby’s kids off at the pool isn’t everyone’s idea of the spirit of the holiday, so how bout fuckin’ there? Mildred’s Temple Kitchen in Canada is a restaurant opening it’s stalls from the 12th-15th for “sexual escapades.” They’ll have a French maid cleaning up, and Karma Sutras in each stall for encouragement, so that will be fun, especially for the guy next door who just wants to take a dump and has to listen to you grunt your way to an awkwardly positioned climax into your unimpressed girlfriend. They won’t provide condoms, but they do offer to sell you a $55 “naughty love hamper” that includes fuzzy handcuffs, which definitely doesn’t have kidnapping disaster written all over it. Screw the hamper (how can a hamper be naughty?),  how much for the maid?

If you’ve already got your dinner plans for the Big Ripoff, it’s time to start thinking about dessert, nudge nudge. I meant bangin’. My plan is to get at least one of my girlfriends something sexy from ‘Ohh! La, La! Couture,’ the lingerie line with punctuation tourettes launched and modeled by BFFs… Noah Cyrus and Emily Grace. For those of you keeping score at home (I’m lookin’ at you NH RSA 632-A:3, III), these savvy entrepreneurs are 9. Not “so hot she’s almost a 10.” So excited she’s almost ten years old. Seems Billy Ray is betting that all the genetic talent went to his first daughter (and then some, sir) and gearing his younger daughter up for a socialite career, with a rich and otherwise useless best friend (she’s 9, what’s your excuse Richie?), a sticky-with-filth reputation, and entitlement issues that would make Tila Tequila piss herself. But the problem isn’t that she’s too young to be promoting, designing, and modeling lingerie, dressing up as a dominatrix for halloween, or have more hooker boots than Ninth and Benton. It’s that she’s ugly as sin. And don’t even try to tell me that’s unfair. If you or your legal guardian are going to put you out there as a sex object, I am going to judge you as such. And my judgment isn’t even a three. Chick’s got baby fat instead of tits, limp hair, I’m pretty sure her makeup artist is a coroner, and her face looks like someone lit it on fire and put it out with a rake. It’s like God had a bad day before making her and wouldn’t put down the potato masher, and sent the stork to Corky and Swamp Thing’s love nest. Seriously, she is so fugly she could make a theater full of black people scream until they puked fried chicken and purple drink.*

(Jesus diaper-shitting Christ, put it away! Sumbitch, now I’m going to have nightmares.)

*Parents, don’t go there. I just found 7 registered sex offenders in my neighborhood, one up the block named Dennis Hittler, which isn’t ominous at all. Don’t worry, Mom. All the offenders in your town live near Grandma.
** Just taking it for a spin, now that it’s all good.

Bet you were getting all excited about all the intelligent stuff going on at Scumbag Style this past week, huh? Thought we were a rag of merit, something you could peruse daily, something you might even show your kids? Well, I warned you: disillusionment is my pornography.

Because I was too hung over to write anything for you today, I present you with (I shit you not), a commission I received not long ago. The assignment was simple: a parody of Cat In The Hat, with a *ahem* specific title, and it must include Poo 1 and Poo 2. I worked on it all day, with the help of colleagues John and Mick, when I should have been doing something like paying my taxes or babysitting or something. Without further ado, I invite — nay, demand that you enjoy:

SCAT IN THE HAT

There was a knock on the door, on that most boring of days,
The day we were grounded, that gray day in May.

The knock was insistent, it rang in our ears.
To be terribly honest it aroused both our fears.

We ran to the door, my sister and I
And when it came open, what sight met our eyes!

A little old negro, so short and so spooky
It occurred to us both that he smelled just like dookie.

“Why the long faces,” he said with a grin,
“It looks to me like you’re both holding it in.”

“Do not let him in!” said our matronly pet eel.
“You both are grounded, and I don’t like his feel.”

The man gave him the finger, and said with a shout,
“If you’re bored, I have a game that will drive boredom right out!”

He moved to the sitting room, on our white pile rug
He dropped his trousers right there and looked rather smug

He popped him a squat, screwed his face to the front
Without further warning he gave a great grunt

It wasn’t a mole hill, it wasn’t a mountain
The stuff that came from him was more like a fountain.

The man seemed quite proud of his sticky diarrhea,
To be sure his watery mess covered the whole area.

We stood, mouths agape. It was colored like Guiness
We stood and we wondered when he would finish his business.

We stood directly behind him, holding our noses
“What’s your problem?” he asked. “It smells just like roses.”

“I would love to join you in your interesting fetish,”
I said, “But I’ve suddenly found myself coming off a bit peckish.”

“No worries,” said he, “You can eat on the can.
There’s quite nothing to it if you turn on the fan.

You can eat cookies and crackers, and plenty of juice
There’s lots you can eat while dropping a deuce.”

“Don’t do it,” the eel said, “it’s surely a trap!
You know how your poor mother feels about crap!”

“And anyway,” I said, “I don’t know if I’m ready.
I don’t usually go until my need is quite heady.”

He shook me his finger, and called me a miser,
“Come now,” he said, “and give me your scheiser.”

I strained and I pushed, I sweated and cried
I would not come out, no matter how hard I tried.

“I need some relief,” I said, “or maybe a tonic,
perhaps an enema or a high colonic.”

“No need to fret,” the negro said with a smile,
“I have just the thing to help you to lay a pile.

“It’s better than any prune based aperitif
My own special blend, a magical laxatif!”

I drank the man’s potion, all purples and greens.
It tasted like raisin bran, and Boston Baked Beans.

The strain was too great, I prayed it would pass
It felt like my brains were coming out of my ass.

He applauded me then, but the eel shook his fin
He looked fit to burst in his watery tin.

“I cannot abide with you children playing with shit
I cannot abide it,” said he, “not one little bit.”

The man shook his head, “Why can’t we have fun?
I bet you’ve got poopy, I bet there’s a ton!

“I hate that creature, be it fish, be it toad!
Get it out of the way, throw it in the commode!”

My pet eel protested, but it was really no use
We really couldn’t deal with his bitchy abuse.

“Now we can commence,” the man said, “to doing it my way,
I’ll give you a tour of the whole Hershey Highway!”

He climbed on the table and began his pontification,
While bending himself over for aerial defecation.

“Don’t mean to offend you,” he said, “don’t mean to be cruel
But all that you eat soon ends up as stool.

You’d be surprised to find in the field archaeological
That there are libidos around immersed solely in the scatological.

Consider the celebrities, Goopy Gus and Mr. Hanky
There are even websites where they use it for hanky-panky!”

He pointed his pucker like a cannon, and fired away
There was no doubt in our minds he knew how to play

“One shit, two shit, brown shit, green shit
It isn’t my story, but what the hell, fuck it.”

He leapt from the table when he’d voided his bowels
And wiped off his bum on my mother’s good towels.

“Now guess who is coming, I’ll give you a clue
Affectionately I call them Poo One and Poo Two!”

Then from the windows there came a great crash
and two little shit monsters landed on the floor in a mash.

They ran all over the house, I’m telling you mister,
They even climbed all over my poor little sister.

“How can you tell them apart?” asked my sister, covered in poo.
“From where I am standing, they both look like number two.”

Wherever they stepped they left stinky pieces
Never before had we seen so much feces.

“Hey!” called the eel from his place in the john
“Just let me know when you plan to be done.

Your mother will be home, yes, in a jiff
and when she sees all this shit she’ll prob’ly be miffed.”

The old man grinned and went into the loo,
He proceeded to drop Cosby’s Kids at the Pool

My poor little eel howled, he sputtered and coughed
He was covered in a doozy, all drippy and soft.

“There is no need to worry,” said the negro emerging,
“All this house needs is a little bit of purging

I’ve got all this Lysol, and plenty of Resolve
With a little bit of elbow grease, it will quickly dissolve.

It will come out of the carpets, and even the drapes
I’ve even a scooper for those coiled brown crepes.”

Catching the monsters proved the hardest of tasks
They slipped through our arms and escaped all our traps

Then the man lifted his ball sack, and it was an impressive bundle,
and a multitude of flies flew out from his grundle

They gathered them up, Poo One and Poo Two
And then with their prize, out the window they flew.

When all was cleaned up, the man turned to us and bowed
He took off his hat, and sort of kowtowed.

“I hope,” he said, “I have shown you a good time
And that shit is less icky when put into rhyme.”

He left with a flourish, and we ran to our room
and swept the last bits of crap under our beds with a broom.

Mother came home, and looked about the place
She had no idea we had played with our waste.

When mother left again, it started to ooze
I went to her closet and crapped in her shoes

We looked at our handiwork, and smiled us both
My sister lay on the floor and I pooped in her mouth.

We knew we’d had fun, it wasn’t a fluke,
And next time we’re bored, we’ll play with our puke.