Can O' Whup-Ass

Karl and Judy Schowengerdt Totally Sorta Love Their Dead Homo Son

DES MOINES -- Karl and Judy Schowengerdt, whose 47-year marriage was recently desanctified by the Iowa State Supreme Court, have decided to share their story with the world. Penning op-eds for the Des Moines Register, whoring themselves out for the National Organization for Marriage, they have embarked on a tireless campaign against the homo "lifestyle," as they're fond of calling it. They had a son named Randy who was rudely "recruited into the gay cult" after moving to that urban Gomorrah known as Omaha. Shortly thereafter, he started complaining of feeling a tad AIDS-y and moved back to chez Schowengerdt. Eventually, sadly, Randy laid down for an open-ended dirt nap. 

So now the Schowengerdts, stricken with grief, have decided to honor their late son and demonstrate their parental love by posting a video on YouTube during which they share photos of his physical decline and kvetch about how much his illness cost the taxpayer. They accuse the homos of conscripting their lil' boy into the ass-sex society and abandoning him after he contracted HIV. And here's the kicker: gay "marriage" (the quotes are theirs), affects everyone because now they're sad. And everyone they know who has a gay son is also sad. Oh, and when a homo dies it can get so expensive! As you might imagine, we have a couple things to say to the charming Schowengerdts.

Dear Karl n' Judy:

Sexual identity is not determined by choosing sides on a playground. There was never a line of florists and hairdressers holding hands and chanting "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Randy Schowengerdt right over." There's no need to recruit. Take a gander at Craigslist and you'll find no shortage of married men honoring the sanctity of their marriages by advertising to rusty-trombone long haul truckers at the local rest stop (discreet only reply).

You lament over the fact that his lifestyle "choice" led to his demise. There we agree. Randy, rest his soul, chose to loathe himself (thanks to his godly upbringing, no doubt), which led to self-destructive behavior and unsafe sex. If, in fact, he was in a loving monogamous relationship with a man (read "married"), he'd likely be alive. But then, of course, you wouldn't get to go on your "the homo lifestyle is destroying our society" lecture tour and press junket.

We are sure that your deep godly shame over your son's identity made his last days ever so pleasant. Moreover, your willingness to exploit his profoundly sad hospital snapshots to shill for your hateful agenda is a spectacularly respectful way to serve his memory. But lest you and your chronically tedious "friends" congratulate yourselves for being Parents of the Year, your condemnations expose your love as false, toxic and far from unconditional, and your overt disapproval is sending your children to their graves with the ruthless efficiency of the cruelest retrovirus. And that, folks, is "family values."

But don't fret about the $250,000 bill to the taxpayers, although the enormity of Randy's medical bills speaks volumes about America's broken health care system. We are quite happy to pay our share to save someone's life or ease their suffering. It strikes us as a better bargain than the recently approved $1.7 billion earmark to make Iowa pigs less stinky.

And finally, to Karl. By the look of your wife Judy's Ellen DeGeneres hairdo and her sleeveless denim vest, some homos have been busy recruiting her. So, um...heads up.

xox
WAM

Would you like to write your own letter to the Schowengerdts? Maybe drop by with a lovely casserole?

Karl and Judy Schowengerdt

2017 Prospect Ave
West Des Moines, IA 50265
(515) 226-7879

<-- click to enlarge

Karl n Judy say: "If our subscription to the COWA feed got AIDs and died, we would still sorta love it anyway!" 

Exotic Zoo Chicken Attacks, un film de Dad: A Totally True Story

You've missed us, desperately. We experienced a brief detour.

And to celebrate our gorgeous return, we've decided to share another story from our retarded past. So don your haz-mat gear and proceed with caution. 'Kay?

We were three years old and this has to be our earliest memory, probably because it was captured on film. Our parents had decided to pile the kids into the chevrolet station wagon with the faux-wood side panels and take us to the Denver Zoo. Zoos have never been our bag. We've always found the animals' collective boredom more contagious than the swine flu. Taking a stroll through the rhino house has never been a pleasant experience for anyone. Aside from the olfactory offenses, rhinos themselves tend to be rotten hosts. They will never be happy to see you. Seeing Mr. Lion pace obsessively in his enclosure is interesting for thirty seconds max, but this, too, is contagious. "Lion pacing in cage" is an image we translate to "get me the f*ck outa here." But the monkeys were cool. 

About this time, our dad was in his epoch cinemagraphique. He'd purchased a super-8 camera and saw fit to chronicle the oddest events. Christmas morning was a given. In the middle of the wasteland of opened gifts and vague disappointment, he'd position a huge light, bright enough to light Shea Stadium. He'd announce when he was rolling and everyone would immediately stop what they were doing as if posing for a still. Dad would capture five minutes of everyone squinting into a bulb that was hotter than the sun, waving at the camera. From the super-8 years, there's very little footage of anyone actually doing anything, except for an avant-garde film dad shot called "swing-set," which consists of yours truly and our sister swinging on a swing-set for about ten minutes, at which point the camera ran out of film. Watching it is not unlike sitting through Warhol's "Empire" in its entirety (or watching a lion pace in its cage, for that matter).

So. Zoo. Three years old. Two memorable things happened that day. We saw our first live black person (we grew up in a rather sheltered town), but it confused us. Our mother looked briefly panicked when we loudly asked her if they were they an exhibit. Give us a break; we were three and at the zoo. It seemed like a reasonable question. The second thing that happened was that dad filmed what was to become his masterpiece.

For some reason, wandering loose amongst the negros and zoo-goers, there was an exotic chicken. She strutted about, her huge colorful plumage on full frontal display. Dad said "we're rolling!" Into the frame steps our sister (five years old, yellow pants, red cardigan, hair in perky pony-tail). She gingerly approaches the chicken because it has occurred to her that one of those feathers would be a lovely souvenir. As she reaches for the feather, the chicken goes into DEFCON1. It jumps on her and starts pecking. Sister runs, chicken follows. Sister runs out of frame and back into it, pecking chicken attacking her thighs. She looked exactly like those school children Suzanne Pleshette and Tippi Hedren sent running to their doom in The Birds. All the while, dad wisely kept the camera steady, a dispassionate observer. Finally, the film ran out.

"Zoo Chicken Attacks," filmed long before home video and Bob Saget's regrettable career, is a family classic. Much to sister's chagrin, we projected it in the family room whenever we had a visitor or anyone needed a laugh. Eventually, when sister volunteered to have dozens of super-8 reels from dad's oeuvres converted to video, "Zoo Chicken Attacks" mysteriously disappeared.

But we've seen it enough we can still replay it in our head, and even act it out for you after our third martini. Sister being attacked by a chicken, silently screaming "daddy help!" as he filmed with the perverse detachment of a war reporter.

Come to think of it, this film goes a long way toward explaining that psychotic episode in our early 20s when we dressed like a chicken and terrorized people for fun and profit.

The end.

xox
WAM

A subscription to this blog's feed is more fun than the monkey house. And just as much poop is thrown.

The Levi Johnston/Sarah Palin Twitter War

The world watched breathlessly as Perez Hilton and Lily Allen engaged in a Twitter slap fight. Just yesterday E!'s Giuliana Rancic and Access Hollywood's Billy BushTwittered the tar out of each other. And who was able to sleep when cultural bellwether Aston Kutcher and CNN were locked in a thrilling Twattle (aka Twitter Battle). Yet somehow, the bloody Twattle raging betwixt hunkalicious hockey dad Levi Johnston and America's favorite born-again moose hunter Sarah Palin managed to slip past our collective radar. How the heck did THAT happen? Could it be because they ingeniously disguised themselves with clever noms de net?

Leave it to COWA to right that egregious wrong. Below is the Johnston/Palin Twattle in its entirety. Your undying adoration is thanks enough.

GODGAL: Levi it was rude of U 2 go on that negro woman's talk show and tell fibs about us, even if they're true.

HOTPUCK: Yeah well suck it grandma.

GODGAL: We agreed to be nice 2 U until the election ended and Tripp plopped from Bristol's sin hole. And u agreed to shut ur yap.

HOTPUCK: Y R U callin my family white trash? They R so embarrassed they can't leave the trailer to deal their meth.

GODGAL: I can't believe Bristol let u put ur shame hose in her hoo-hoo. U R a doo-doo head and you make Jesus cry.

HOTPUCK: She begged for it, practically dragged me into the janitor closet right after the chastity pledge potluck.

GODGAL: U took advantage of her. U took my baby's virginity and put ur devil seed in her tummy. I regret giving u pointers on how 2 b a media whore.

HOTPUCK: Hey, I didn't want to make no baby with that bat-faced porker. I was a gentleman, I offered to put it up her poo hole instead.

GODGAL: Bristol said u wanted to sell her baby on e-bay like that man who tried to sell his daughter who was in that movie about the dot-heads.

HOTPUCK: So? My truck needs new tires and a gun rack.

GODGAL: I wish I followed thru on my promise to give u a job so's I could strong-arm ur boss into firing u.

HOTPUCK: Shut ur pie-hole, granny. Go check on ur retarded baby, it's prolly eating its poop.

Levi Johnston sez: "My subscription to this blog's feed is more fun than my 'I'm not white trash' talk show tour and press junket!"

Re-animated Cheney Defends Getting Torture-y with Sand Jawas

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

Good afternoon. First I'd like to thank my lovely wife for taking a break from writing her latest lesbo horse opera to defibrillate me into consciousness long enough to write this here press release.

It has come to my attention that our pansy-loving rap-hop president has freshly returned to the White Negro House after giving a lap dance to Raul Castro and slobbering all over Hugo Chavez's chalupa down in Mexarico. And instead of spending the next two days locked in el baño uno with a case of the taco trots like any normal American returning from Mexistan, he went and made a bunch of torture memos public. While only a commie homo goes around making things public, releasing these particular memos will only lead to our white American daughters being kidnapped and forced to dance the hootchie kootchie in Bin Laden's harem.

So we told a bunch of sadistic 007 types they could smack around a couple or eighty sand jawas? Boo-freaking-hoo. To some guys, getting trussed up in leather restraints and having their pecker zapped with a cattle prod describes a perfect Sunday afternoon (though it would be rude to name names, isn't that right, Arney-bay Ank-fray?). But let me ask you this, how many terror attacks have we had since we started getting a little waterboard-y with Abdul and Ahmed McFatwah? I'll tell you. Exactly the same number we had before I was President Vice President. So shove that in your bongs and smoke it, you screaming bunch of hippie communists!

However, I do agree with the President's decision not to prosecute those maladjusted spy boys who cream their underoos every time they hear a towelhead cry for his mommy in arabian. Because not only would exposing CIA operatives severely undercut our national security, it would imperil the lives of folks all over the world who are busy trying to render Ali and Anwar Jihadowitz to Egypt, where we outsource all that let's-drill-screws-into-his-toes grunt work. That is to say, outing spies is treason. Unless the spy is an uppity bimbo whose f*ggot husband writes a rude op/ed that calls "shenanigans" on our little white WMD fibs.

Well my decrepit ticker's about to overheat and fart to a stop so I better stop typing soon. But I would like to weigh in on that fat homo Perez Hilton blasting that cute Miss USA broad for speaking out against fairy weddings. Give the skirt a break. Who better than a stacked chick whose bikini is held in place with crotch tape to talk about morals? Take it from a man whose only women in his life up and turned lesbo, we're all sick and tired of hearing about it.

Cheney sez: "a subscription to this blog's feed is even tastier than baby flesh...mmmmm" 

Meghan McCain's Keynote Speech at the 2009 Log Cabin Republican Convention and Grab-Ass Hootenanny

*** OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT ***

MEGHAN MCCAIN: Thank you. Thank you for such a warm welcome. I am totally honored and stuff that you've asked me, Meghan McCain, to talk at the Log Cabin Republicans 2009 Convention! Wooooooo!

(applause)

Wasn't Kanye West's little rap-hop song cute? Those negro boys sure can dance. They can also, apparently, get elected so they can tax us rich folks into oblivion and spend our hard-inherited money as if they were George Bush.

(booing, hissing)

But there's a lesson we can learn from Black Hussein Jihad Fatwa Bin Laden Obama and his rude white house take-over. It's fun to crash parties you're not invited to! When I look at the sea of your gay caucasian faces, Cliniqued and Lorealed into a stupor, I'm touched by your collective desire to be welcomed into the big tent of the Republican Party. This, despite the fact that most Republicans secretly wish you'd all get on a boat and sail back to Oz. It reminds me of the time that cute Jewboy Steven Spielberg tried to schedule tee-time at my Daddy's country club. Sometimes I think about that and I laugh and laugh and laugh. The fact is, I've always liked the homos. If it wasn't for you, no fat gal would ever go to a prom.

(laughter, applause)

But in all seriosity, thanks for supporting my decrepit daddy in the election. And don't think he never met with you during the campaign 'cause he was afraid his base would call him a f*ggot-rimming fruit fly. That's exactly why he didn't, but don't think that. I was saying to my mom the other day, just before she passed out after her third Vico-tini and did a face-dive into her plate of Lean Cuisine Fetuccini Alfredo...wait, what? I totally forgot what I said to her. Oh yeah! I told her we should totally have a homo re-decorate houses one, two, four, six and seven. Houses three and five are next to some nosy GOP donors, and we can't risk them catching sight of a parade of snappy dressers mincing and sashaying in and out of the house with upholstery swatches and chihuahuas.

(crickets chirping)

Anywho, there's an open bar! Remember, the self-loath-o-rama foam dance starts at 9, right after Ugly Betty. I can't wait to slip a five into the sweaty g-string of one of those humpalicious Congressional Page go-go boys! In the meantime, be sure to check out those darling displays in the lobby. I particularly liked the "How to Move to Vermont, Get Married and Vote Out Those Commie Liberals Who Made Our Wedding Possible" booth. There's also a kiosk selling GOP-themed sex toys, like "Don't Ask Don't Tell" buttplugs and "Strom Thurmond" slave shackles. Enjoy!!

(applause)

Meghan sez: "I vote for subscribing to this blog's feed!"

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Molly Shannon

Dear Molly Shannon:

"And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon its horns ten crowns, and upon its heads the name of blasphemy. And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and its feet were as the feet of a bear, and its mouth as the mouth of a lion"
-- Revelations, 13:1-2

'Nuff said?

xox
WAM

Mary Catherine Gallagher sez: "Sometimes I think about my subscription to the COWA feed and sniff my fingers. That's bad."

A Few Choice Words for Esquire Magazine (or, "How to Cancel a Subscription")

We have a subscription to Esquire.* We don't pay for it; it's complimentary, courtesy of the overzealous real estate agent who sold us our condo. We barely tolerate it, and thumb through it occasionally while dropping the kids off at the pool. Its style is snotty/snarky, its humor flat, its features dull as dishwater, and its over-arching theme seems to be convincing under-endowed middle management types that they'll get ahead if they drive a Porsche and act like an ass-hat.

This month's edition is "How to be a Man, 2009." The cover features Clooney/Obama/Timberlake in a complicated "rip and reveal" facial feature mash-up that would be clever in Mad Magazine, but feels desperate and gimmicky here (our scanned, recycle bin-bound copy at right).

Part of teaching us how to be a man is undertaken by a feature called "How to Skin a Moose," which guides man-wannabes through step-by-step instructions on everything from consoling a crying woman (hint: don't try to smack the tears away) to making pancakes (a manly enterprise, ask Mrs. Butterworth). Included, is "How to Curse Well." Here's a choice excerpt:

Let the context do the work. Calling your neighbor's nosy nine-year-old boy a prick or even a "sh*t-sniffing f*ggot" will have a leveraged impact. [the expurgation is ours]

Really? Hurling hateful epithets at a young boy will make us a man? Good to know. Bear in mind, this same issue has a tortuously long and tedious article about Todd Palin, the most p*ssy-whipped, emasculated man since Macbeth. And not for nuthin, but according to Lambda, nearly 30% of all gay youth admit to having attempted suicide. Mean-spirited abuse from an adult will surely be a big help if the kid is questioning who he is. Moreover, if we had a son and he was called a sh*t-sniffing f*ggot by a neighbor, we'd quickly teach our neighbor "how to ride in an ambulance."

So now, buried several clicks into its website, is Esquire's apology. They say:

The target of the parody was profanity itself and not the various people who might be its object, including gay people.

Oh, it was a parody! Now that we think about it, other items in "How to Skin a Moose" (such as "How to Wire a Ceiling Fixture" and "How to Fillet a Fish") left us in stitches! And even if it is a joke, we loathe the person who laughs at it.

Sorry folks. We tried to be funny today.

Oh, FYI...the editors at Esquire can be contacted at esquire@hearst.com.

*Correction: we had a subscription to Esquire.

Dump your subscription to Esquire. Subscribe to the COWA feed instead. We'll teach you how to be a man until you're walking funny.

My Day at the Zoo: A Poem by Mandy K

Over the weekend, animal enthusiast Mandy K had an educational encounter with a cute furry polar bear at the Berlin Zoo. Since then, she's had the opportunity to reflect on her experience while relaxing at a local hospital. The result? This charming poem, rescued from the hospital's hazardous waste bin.

MY DAY AT THE ZOO

Hey! Know what I wanna do?
Let's do what the latest rage is!
Let's go to the Berlin Zoo
And climb inside some critters cages!
Take a ride on Mr. Gnu
Ask hyena why he's laughing
Help a monkey throw his poo
Meet giraffes and go giraffing
Wait, what's that? Look over there!
Pinky-swear, I'd never fib! It
Looks like Mister Polar Bear
Is in that polar bear exhibit!
I just had the coolest whim,
Let's hop in while no one's lookin
Go kersplash and take a swim
And ask the fluffy one what's cookin?
Come along now! Whatcha say?
Polar Bears are cute! The neatest!
Hey, don't look at me that way,
You are always so defeatist!
Here goes nothin! Kowabunga!
Howdy, fella! Howzit hangin?
Whatcha feelin? Is it hunga?
Need some meat to sink your fang in?
Don't be growly, let's play nice
Say, you're looking kinda grouchy
Is it cause you miss the ice?
Hey, don't bite! That's sorta ouchy!
Friends don't turn friends into food!
Fine! I'm leaving! Gosh, almighty!
You really needn't be so rude!
Who knew Polar Bears were bite-y?

Mr. Polar Bear sez: "A subscription to this blog's feed is tastier than a fat kraut bitch's thigh!"

The Gathering Whup-Ass

In the wake of Vermont and Iowa making their marriage laws gender-neutral, an anti-gay organization imaginatively called The National Organization for Marriage has launched a multi-million dollar ad campaign they've christened "The Gathering Storm." The commercial (slated to run eight times a day in states where similar legislation's being considered), features a multicultural group of actors who have unwisely gathered on a field in the middle of a thunderstorm. With furrowed brows they gaze at the camera and tell us true stories about how the gays have cramped their style. Unfortch, their "true stories" (based on actual events) are just a tad distort-y and fibby. As the Human Rights Campaign points out:

1. A constipated-looking woman claims she was forced to choose between her faith and her job. This is based on the case of a doctor in California who refused to treat a lesbian.
2. A dreamy young man relates the heartbreaking tale of how his church was punished by the state for not supporting same-sex marriage. This is based on a Methodist church in NJ that owns (and rents out) a beach-front pavilion that's open to everyone but homos.
3. A super-mom chokes back tears as she tells us how a teacher attempted to recruit her baby into the fairy lifestyle. This relates to an unsuccessful bid by a handful of Massachusetts parents to have diversity curriculum dumped from the public schools.

A doctor violating the Hippocratic oath. A church engaging in a business enterprise which violated a state's equal access laws. A parent who failed to hijack public education to serve her bigoted whim. But fear not! Just as our horrified actors are about to be fried by a bolt of lightning, they all decide to join forces and defeat those hell-bound fairies who are rudely planning their Carmen Miranda themed disco weddings as we speak. Sun bursts through the clouds. Angels sing. End of commercial (you can watch it here).

We suspect that marriage is far less imperiled than the careers of the actors who took this gig.

Anywho, we've decided to write a script for a new commercial:

 

THE GATHERING WHUP-ASS

Six actors appear on a barren landscape. It looks like rain.

MAN IN INDIAN COSTUME: Half of all hetero marriages end in divorce.
MAN IN COWBOY COSTUME: One in five of all married hetero men can't keep it in their pants.
MAN IN CONSTRUCTION WORKER COSTUME: My partner Lance and I adopted a Korean girl who told us her science teacher claimed that Adam and Eve rode stegosauruses around the garden of Eden.
MAN IN LEATHER DADDY COSTUME: Whatever folks do behind closed doors is their own beeswax, but when heteros flaunt it in public it makes me picture the gross things they do.
MAN IN ARMY COSTUME: Ew! Heteros are destroying the sanctity of my gay marriage!
MAN IN INDIAN COSTUME: And that twister's about to drop a house on us!
ALL: Eeeek!

A ray of sun majestically pierces through the clouds.

MAN IN COP COSTUME: Girl, don't get your buttplug stuck. Once all the homos move to Iowa and Vermont, no one will be left in the breeder states to do their hair or decorate their homes or choreograph their lame productions of Pippin! Hetero states will regress to the stone age!
ALL: Yay!!
MAN IN ARMY COSTUME: Mary, you look cute in that cowboy outfit!
MAN IN COWBOY COSTUME: Thanks, bitch!

The end.

The National Organization for Marriage would subscribe to this blog's feed, but Jesus would send them to H-E-double hockey sticks!

This Week in Poop #21: The Greatest Story Ever Pooped

It's been a long time since we took a stroll through the poop-centric items of interest from all corners of the globe. We've got a lot to wade through, so let's dive right in!

• I WANT MY POOP: In a heartwarming gesture of thanks, someone messengered a package of poop to MTV executive Joe Cuello. We approve. It's high time MTV was given a little taste of what they've been throwing at us for decades.
• HOLY DONKEY POOP: When devout Christians make a pilgrimage to Nazareth, they can purchase a souvenir to remind them of Israel; industrious types have begun selling donkey plop majestically suspended in acrylic cubes. Just what Jesus would have wanted, no doubt.
• I LEFT MY POOP IN SAN FRANCISCO: The citizens of San Francisco have been jolted from their blissful stupor by a horrifying string of potty fires. An arsonist has set over 21 such blazes since November, reducing highly inflammable porto-sans to oozing piles of blue goo. The resourceful San Franciscans refuse to take it sitting down, and have organized "potty patrols." Sign up today!
• THE FLYING TOILETS OF NAIROBI: The sensible sub-Saharan countries of Africa have been too busy starving, revolting and hacking each other to bits to get around to building proper facilities. "Flying toilets" are the norm in urban settings like Nairobi. Folks simply pinch a loaf into a ziplock baggie and hurl it from their house. It's been called an epidemic. In related news: there are simply oodles of travel bargains to Nairobi!
• TURD BURGLARS OF LONDON:One recent morning took a distressing turn when curators at London's dazzling Natural History Museum discovered that someone had stolen a priceless hunk of dinosaur poop. Not only are 65 million-year-old fossilized titanosaurus droppings irreplaceable, they frequently wear dresses and answer to the name Camilla Parker-Bowles.
• TURD BURGLARS OF LONDON, PART DEUX:Daniel Bennet's day started on the wrong foot when his lizard poop went missing. It was soon discovered that a janitor at Leeds University had tossed it out, jeopardizing Mr. Bennet's PhD candidacy. A PhD in Lizard Poop? Suddenly our degree seems sensible.
• LITTLE BUNNY POO-POO: For years, Susan Bell has been contemplating what to do with her horse's poop. Eureka! The classy gal has decided to roll up her sleeves and mold it into bunny-rabbits! She sells them as dung bunnies. And she's single, guys!!
• THE GOLD POOPERS OF NAGANO:It has been recently discovered that when the charming citizens of Nagano Japan drop Fat Man and Little Boy off at the pool, their poop contains gold. More gold, in fact, than the world's most productive gold mines. Grab your prospecting pans! There's gold in them thar sewers!
• THE EXPLODING SEWERS OF MISSOURI: One day the sewer exploded in the glorious shangri-la of Jefferson City, Missouri. This resulted in poop coating the inside of two families' homes. Are those brownies you're baking Mrs. Cleaver? 
• POOP DIVER FINDS HIS KEYS: One day along US Highway 30, a man climbed down into the latrine pit of a rest stop and got stuck in the poop. Upon being rescued, he explained to the nice firemen that he'd dropped his keys and went to find them. He later found his keys in his back pocket. You meet the strangest men at rest stops, don't you Senator Craig?
• KOBE BRYANT'S POOP MAID: Kobe Bryant treats maids poorly. He got a little rape-y with a hotel maid a few years ago, and now his domestic is suing the Bryants for abuse. Aside from being unpleasant and yelly, Kobe's wife made the poor woman stick her hand in a bag of dog poop. It's so hard to find good help these days.
• THE POOP KIDS OF ROME: Roman police recently found hundreds of homeless immigrant children living in the sewers. Above ground, Pope Benedict made another speech against birth control before retiring to the Vatican men's room and pooping on the children.
• SUSAN BELL, NAKED DOG POOP LADY: One sunny day in the idyllic hamlet of Portsmouth New Hampshire, it occurred to Susan Bell to take off her clothes and pick up dog poop in a neighborhood park. Yes, we noticed that she shares her name with the dung bunny woman, but they are not the same person. But if you ever meet a woman named Susan Bell, be sure to throw some poop at her. We have scientific proof that all Susan Bells love it.   

Susan Bell sez: "A subscription to this blog's feed is better than poop."