(Now, Barbara Kent. She was a real looker of a whore.)

Peter Lauria is a media reporter like Animal is a drummer: really good at his job, but bystanders should probably make sure their immunizations and rabies shots are up to date. Which means not only should Jenny McCarthy’s kids stay at least a mile from him – and her; enjoy your slow, painful death kids – but also, here and there he’s going to piss someone off. This time, he gave the journalistic titty-twist to notorious dirty old hobgoblin and Viacom owner Sumner Redstone (pictured below),* who Lauria’s inside source says is ‘forcing’ MTV to produce a shitty reality show. Break out the big arm twisting machine, this is going to be tough. That’s like asking the decidedly crazy homeless guy on the offramp to eat some fresh dog shit: it’s all a matter of how much booze he can get with the money you give him to forget what an infected boil he is on the taint of society.

The Daily Beast has learned that Redstone is so smitten with a scantily clad new all-girl group dubbed the Electric Barbarellas that he has paid to fly its six members out to New York to meet with record labels—and forced MTV to shoot a pilot for a reality-TV series about the group… The show and music are so bad that MTV executives  object to it [and may quit over it]. (DailyBeast)

Like Jane Fonda? She knew how to work for a contract.

“Hey sweetie, you want to join the Reptile Pie Club? What? WHAT? Goddurn hearing aid. ‘The Mile High’… Wow. I have been doing that all wrong.” So your boss is a disgustingly rich dirty old man and wants to spend his last days around some tits and ass that can’t talk back? He owns you, get over it. Don’t pretend you have scruples or anything, you aired My Super Sweet 16 without giving any thought to how many pedophiles were at home rubbing one off to what they would do spoiled brats on entitlement steroids in the back of their new Lexus.

Anyway, Redstone isn’t all gone, as evidenced by the fact that he left Lauria the best voicemail since Alec Baldwin came down with buyer’s remorse over a defective offspring. A sample? Why sure:

“I know you may be reluctant… we have to have the name of the person who gave you that story. We’re not going to kill him. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to fire him. We just want to talk to him.” (DailyBeast)

We’re not going to break his legs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to throw him in a concrete pit with junkyard dogs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to make him walk the plank and send him Davey Jones’ Locker. Wait… Anyway, if you could also fax over the names of his wife, kids, parents, and beloved pet, that would be great.

We will protect you completely. There are several sources that could give us that name. Including a certain guy that works for a law firm that works for MTV.

Who? You, know, a ‘certain guy.’ Just like Bricks Brassi and Richie the Savant are ‘certain guys’ what get ‘certain’ things done for us. Fuck it, you know what? Murdering things. If I want to go all Corleone in my advanced, diseased years over a tray of assorted fuckmeats that couldn’t maintain a Myspace page let alone a legitimate career, that’s my prerogative. Tell you what. When you own the fourth largest media conglomerate in the world, you can fill the casting couch with as much dick as you want, and your pansy ass can be as sugar & spice about it as it wants. No shit, the Electric Barbarellas suck. They’re a girl band that got their name from a Duran Duran song about naked mannequins, British masturbation, and a bald Mr. Bean. They describe themselves as “a cross between the Pussycat Dolls and Spice Girls, except raunchier.” They’re just some dumb bitches that want their American 15 minutes, and I’m going to give it to them in December, which gives them just enough time to take turns tongue bathing my shriveled, liver-spotted balls in teams of two, until the doctor says I have to go on dialysis and avoid having fun at all costs. Here’s a wad of hundreds; use it to plug up that gushing cunny before I open a sterling silver Shirley Temple factory between your legs.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do when I hear one of my Viacom slaves talked some shit about me? Give me the name of the snitch, or I’ll just plant a bomb under every car in the parking lot to make sure I get him. It’ll send Ted “Limp Dick” Turner a message, too. You want that on your head, Lauria? What are they going to do, give me the death penalty? I’m a hundred and sixty, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention I look like something primitive African tribes would burn as a demon, in a plaid suit you have to have a senior citizen ID to even buy. You might as well build me a cross and deify me on FOX News right now. And speaking of that, Rupert, my boy. You know I agree with everything you put on your fine network – not only do I own CBS, the premiere channel for crotchety old biddies that remember the McCarthy days fondly, I’m also a client – but do you have to hire such angry people? I watch FOX News before I go to bed, I get so agitated I poop myself at least three times while I sleep. We old conservatives like our news like we like our Cream of Wheat: drippy, bland, and not a little bit racist. Oh, and that Megyn Kelly. You should get her one of those water massagers they have in the Sears Roebuck catalog, because she’s a hot little spitfire but I think she’s a little… backed up. All jawin’ on about nothin’ over other sensible folks, makin’ a mess of the negro problem. [see how deep you can get into this hot mess before you throw up like you're on a roller coaster at Lean Pockets World] Medical paroxysm, that’s the ticket! We have a ‘certain guy’ for that, if you need some help.

Will relieve your women of hysteria, no questions asked.

So, reality TV is going Italian mafia gang busters now, which is going to be really ironic for The Situation, because he thinks he’s one of them, but they are going to scalp him and use his petrified blowout as an emery board for their cats.

*Ha! You can’t steal this one Stewart/Colbert! You call this man massa.

(I’m mommy’s toy! Don’t worry guys, i’m sure she can find a way to make you all feel useful again! Uh, except you, Sarge. You are made of plastic stabs.)

The number one box-office smash in the world right now is the family favorite Toy Story 3.* The final (until Pixar and/or Randy Newman feel irrelevant again) installment of the beloved cash cow concerns young Andy’s passage into the Lucius Apuleius [Ancient Roman porn, not as fun as it sounds - ed.] playbook that is college, and is reportedly as touching as Tim Allen is legally allowed to get with assembled minors. But did you know it is also the feel-good pro-life affirmation of the year? Jesus’s blog says, “FUCK TO THE YES!”

For the sake of context, here’s the film’s plot as I’ve gathered while intermittently listening to Kathy Lee’s little brat Nepotism Cody spray it: See, the toy cowboy and the toy astronaut have an existential crisis when they realize Andy’s keg stands will be seriously impeded by holding a couple of dolls, and while a third mind-numbing adventure of self-discovery and purportedly clever size jokes (look they’re in a car, but they’re too small!) would be pretty rad, banging the mousy freshman down the hall is sounding pretty friggin’ good, too. Will the toys be wanted, cared for, loved any more? Will it ever be like the old times, watching Andy punish his pubescent sausage under his Buzz Lightyear comforter in the middle of the night because he plays with dolls instead of talking to girls? So, the whole nutty cast hatches an evil plot to follow Andy to college, ruin his social life, and get him into D&D, thereby ensuring his only friends are talking piggy banks, hen-pecked re-mutilatable potatoes, and snarky dog slinkies… No?

The question the film must answer is whether each toy is valuable for its own sake, as an end and not merely a means to something else. And the answer is that every toy, regardless of usefulness or “newness” or brokenness, is special. That’s the message Toy Story 3 ultimately affirms. (LifeSiteNews)

LifeSite! I missed you guys! What’s the matter, a life of deranged programming of the masses tiring? That’s cool, I’m just glad you’re putting the bike helmet and backwards galoshes back on in time to turn the touching message of eternal friendship, and the importance of realizing one’s worth after a lifetime of fulfilling service, on its head for us.

We’re debating the same question in America today — only about human beings, not fictional toys. And it plays out in the controversies over abortion, euthanasia and embryo-destructive** research.

Thar she blows, like a Catholic school girl with no encouragement! Also, Predator was about the homosexual agenda, Good Night and Good Luck clearly illustrated the anti-Catholic bias of the media, and the Woodsman… well, that was just plain hawt. Well, at least the first part. Doesn’t really carry through that well. Like the first half of Enough when the Rocketeer is beating the hell out of Jenifer Lopez, but then it all takes a turn for the worse, and if you don’t turn it off on time, you totally lose your erection.

The point is, if you put on a blindfold in the middle of a Nickelback concert and start blindly stabbing around with a Samurai sword, you’re bound to hit a queer. Sans incredibly crass metaphor (but why?): You can impose any message you want on a cartoon if you grasp at enough straws. For example: were I to make the mistake of having kids, I would tell my son as we left the theater, “Boy,” because I wouldn’t bother to memorize his name in addition to his gender.

I’d say, “Boy, Toy Story 3 is about making Pixar a fuck-ton of money on the nostalgia people have from before that sentimental piece of shit Up came out, and about the truth of evolution, and a justification for wholesale abortion. See, you might think you’re more important than the plants and animals of this world. That’s what AM radio calls ‘human exceptionalism’ when they’re talking about Jesus, ‘American exceptionalism’ when they’re talking about smelly foreigners. But if a carved block of wood and a cheaply cobbled collection of fragile plastic and inferior paint have a sense of consciousness and a better vocabulary than their human counterpart, doesn’t that put things in perspective? If a person’s toy can worry about its specialness and purpose, not to mention its future, don’t you think you’re more like semi-articulate dogshit in the grand scheme of the cosmos? And in that case, is it our place to impose our narrow view of where dogshit comes from – or when it becomes dogshit, or when the dogshit has sun dried to the point it should be discarded as finally entirely useless – on anyone else? When you’re 18, I’ma take you out and buy you your first coat hanger, boy. Always best to be prepared.”

If you don’t think that’s correct, LifeSite, it is probably because our theories were randomly fished and pulled out of different asses.

I’m not mad though, because you are owed so very many props for the singular racist article of the summer. Way to set the bar higher for the rest of us scumbags!

*Data not even remotely authenticated or even presumed true by the author. Just so you know where we stand, reader: Fuck you.
** Catholic propaganda websites: keeping Merriam Webster in business even when you thought there were no more fake-ass terms to formulate.

(When Georgia O’Keefe met Courtney Love, the painter went into a horrified stupor. When she awoke, she found she had painted this. The artistic release failed to soothe her.)

The Widow Corbain has recovered from a two week bender and, for the second time in as many months, crawled out from under her rock to contribute her eloquence to a subject we’ve all already forgotten about. Seems Courtney Love  just got around to reading John Mayer’s playboy interview, in which he praises Jess Simpson’s “sexual napalm” and said his dick was a “white supremacist,” and she has… thoughts? An unreasonable facsimile, at least. From her Twitter:

“do you ever feel like spite hate fucking @johncmayer just to put hi in his place, hes a better guitarist than me but not better in bed !… but like say your fucking @johncmayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times”

If you can’t shut your mouth when nobody is talking to you, I’m going to find something else for it to do. Like gnaw on a Milkbone. What? I’m not sticking my dick in there. Might as well tell the doctor to fire up the ole circumstraint and set it to 3 inches, and don’t skimp on the battery acid. If she could see less than three of everything, she might have thought to say, “I’ll show him sexual napalm!” and then squat, dripping steaming holes in the carpet.

First of all, we have to do away with the terminology “hate fuck,” given the circumstances. Just like crime. All violent crimes are hate crimes, and adding extras to the sentence falls squarely into the category of most asinine legal moves in this country’s history. Just so, any fuck from Courtney Love is a hate fuck, engineered to apply the greatest possible shame, pain, and self-loathing imaginable. Kurt’s shotgun was just one big dildo designed to bring about the ultimate masochist climax available. Contributions to the Batman & Robin soundtrack was Billy Corgan’s, but to be fair, he found Jesus or some shit. Hint: He hides in the dryer, because He has the mind of a child.  “Let the children come to me, and pick sides for dodge ball!”

“BAM punch him in the face”? Mayer would probably embrace a punch from Tyson if it would blur his vision of that toothy, hair-lipped hell-maw you call a chatch for a few blessed seconds. In the past, I too have expressed a brand of hatred for the musician, though never to the point of arousal. My problem with him before was that he wasn’t using his demigod blues guitar powers for good. It’s like when Hulk Hogan turned bad, and still kicked ass, except Mayer’s bad was channeling the spirit of Mississippi John Hurt to waste on shitty sentimentality, landing himself in thediscount bin in the Adult Contemporary section. If Hurt had written “Your Body Is A Wonderland,” the title would have been, “You’re Pussy Is Real Loose, But Oh Well.” I don’t even want to think what “Daughters” would have been about.

"... and fathers go down on your daaaaauughters too... no matter how thick they thighs."

But John Mayer’s cheeky antics this year have redeemed him eleven-fold. Publicly swearing off relationships so he can get in as much pussy that isn’t attached to Jennifer “I’m Surprised She Isn’t A Cutter” Aniston as possible; Announcing onstage his intentions to impregnate at least one fan that very evening; Releasing a sugar-coated single about pinchbeck pillow-talk and getting stoned; Hell, “my penis is a white supremacist” is merely a direct, if entirely impolitic way of saying he has a type. How does Courtney Love not get behind that shit?

“oh dudes Mayers a little bland for me and youngish ill do young, but hes neither Yale Harvard Oxford and hes not really rock, so not for me,” she wrote. And to a fan who asked her to clarify hate fucking, she wrote, “hate fucking is an art like ‘the pit’ meaning you rape each other and then beat the shit our of each other so u can feel shit.”

Should have asked her to clarify “rock.” Let us know if the second side of Pretty On The Inside qualifies, seriously, because if it does, I know a 3 year old banging on his mom’s pots and pans with his dented skull that needs a career. When you die (I’m like a Catholic kid on December 20th for that), donate your brain to science so we know where this comes from. Isn’t a qualification for a university to be Ivy League a standing restraining order against you personally? Also, in your “The Pit” style hate fucking (the only thing you remember from the ’80s is The Pit? Jesus), who plays the autistic kid? “They don’t eat chocolate bars. You know what they eat?” All the shit Courtney Love seems to want to beat out of John and then “feel.”

In case Love’s mangling of an innocent metaphor into a gross-fest not seen since Matthew Broderick and his elephantitis stricken mare last coupled didn’t tickle your gag reflex with a rusty saw, she also threw this in:

“my genealogist* and my gynocplogist know i do my Kegals like a snatch the cig off the table thai sex worker,”

For the love of Bacchus, why? To belatedly show your computer is capable of capitalization, despite the fact you have no concept of how to use it? At least the beast what lives between your legs can have a smoke break between scrapings.

*How do you not know that a genealogist doesn’t need access to your vagina to ply his trade? Or is this not a medical thing, and you’re just naming two of the several thousand men you’ve granted access to your twat?

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.

(God’s personal endorsement for the Hijab. Put it away!)

I knew, one day, that ugly little hobgoblin would drive me to poop jokes. Sarah Jessica Parker revealed yesterday, in some celebrity savant attempt to say that she loves her kids, that she loves the smell of dirty diapers. “I even like when they’re wet and you smell them all warm liked a baked good,” she said. ”I love the smell of Balmex. Love it.” Ah yes, poop and the stuff you only smell when your child has a painful rash that makes them scream worse than a Wes Craven victim. Two of my favorite smells, as well. You would think that schnoz would render her paralyzed at the very hint of excrement, but no. Have we sent a scientist/spelunker in there yet? Because Yankee Candle would give its left nut to find out what makes shit smell like baked goods. 

That family was already its own kind of ugly, emerging from the swamp every once in a while in frumpy clothes to attend an award show or party nobody really wanted them at. What with Broderick McBowtie defying nature and aging worse than any man ought to, PDAing vomitously with a mangled, barren, talentless horseface. Now I have to picture them wallowing around in their childrens’ feces? Every time i think the very existence of Sex and the City couldn’t bum me out any more, it pulls me right back in.