(”You should stick around for the double feature. It’s supposed to be a surprise, but I’ll give you a hint: what’s smaller than a breadbox, and covered in cum? I’m sorry, I’m not good at this.)

My man Martin Ssempa over there in Uganda has the right idea. He’s a pastor in a country that makes homosexual acts illegal, with sentences as severe as death, and he makes damned sure his parishioners don’t slip up, and live to the ripe old age of 30.

“The major argument homosexuals have is that what people do in the privacy of their bedrooms is nobody’s business but do you know what they do in their bedrooms?,” the pastor asked. Ssempa then displayed a slide show of [hardcore] gay pornographic pictures… “This one is eating another man’s anus (eds: correct),” the pastor said, before going into graphic scatological descriptions.

Atta boy! Pillow biting movie time for Jesus! This guy is a goddamned genius, showing his 300 strong congregation (that’s including children, for those of you keeping score on your home edition of Super-Perv) hardcore porn to keep them from fagging out. Gather round, kids! Take it from an American, here’s nothing less fun than watching porn. When everybody sees how unpleasant porn makes sex appear to be, they may never want to so much as shower without a burlap body condom on again. Children will wear ties in the pools, and men will dam their anuses with Wrigley’s and duct tape rather than do the horrific things in those – - hey, was that an orgasm?

Wait, what are you going to do about the people, who have never been exposed to homosexuality outside of constant demonization, and think to themselves, “Hey, that looks like a pretty swell time!”? Or lean over and say to their wives, “Say that looks just like when I give you a Mexican Facial, and that’s always an enjoyable experience. Perhaps I should consider broadening my horizons.” Wouldn’t you just be giving your followers an illustrated

how-to class on opening their own 24-hour fudge packing sweat shop? I mean, sure, you could probably set an armed guard to waste anyone leaving with an obvious boner, and you might even be able to tell who’s coming back for seconds with their tuggin’ pants on and put them in the special poisoned wine line. Some will undoubtedly get through the net; they look just like real people, what can you do? You’ll get a whole bunch though, so nobody can say you didn’t do your part in the murderin’. The only problem I see with your adult book store arcade/church is the expense of mending all the glory holes these guys will drill into your pews. I swear, they must walk around with those comically large, drywall sodomizing corkscrews you see in ’60s spy movies in their fanny packs at all times.

[The new law, of which Father Knucklehead is a major proponent] would criminalise public discussion of homosexuality and could penalise an individual who knowingly rents property to a homosexual.

Dude, isn’t having to clean the scent of potpourri and Arbor Mist out of the apartment punishment enough? If discussion of homosexuality is illegal, how are you going to brainwash your people that it’s evil? Not to mention, you can straight forget about your dude-centric movie nights when the law passes. What do you say to your detractors who might claim the punishment harsh, if not downright impossible to prove in the first place? Or ask you why you have so much gay porn laying around, which, I know, is so totally beside the point it might as well be the world’s biggest “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt?

However Ssempa has remained unrepentant, claiming he will take the pornography to the parliament.

Whew, I thought you wouldn’t have a rational, totally not retardo plan for this contingency. A priest that promises to roll up to parliament with a slide-show of tea-baggin’ jesus-hurtin’ pucker-blastin’ semen-gurglin’ analingus and three-ways has my full attention. Especially if they don’t donate a Ssempa wing to the local asylum. Let me follow you and learn of your ways, Rabbi! Sensei’s got a black belt in letting bitches know where he stands, and the dojo just exploded for not being able to contain his crazy cajones.

The pastor, whose previous feats included publishing the names of homosexuals in newspapers, said he wanted the bill to be passed as law by Easter Sunday — April 4 — as “an Easter present to the people of Uganda”.

To which Jesus responded, “I’m so happy I could just die… again!” and everyone shared a hearty 80’s sitcom closing laugh, complete with the ubitquitous queer burning.

(I got this story here, here, and here, all of which have slightly different interpretations. If you care then you’ve missed the point of this site, and will have to stay after school.)

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.