Can O' Whup-Ass

South of the border (plus, bonus commentary from Aunt Betsy, the universe's most irresponsible advice columnist)

Hola, trash. You've missed us desperately. In our absence, natch, the world went down the toilet. Debt ceilings and ratings downgrades and stock sell-offs and scary fundamentalist hoote-nannies. The economy is smoking crack with Whitney Houston in some bathroom in Pocatello.

What's America to do?

Might we suggest heading south? Get off your knees, trash. We meant to say if we could all just pile into a jet and dash down to the tropics where the locals are brown and our drinks arrive in coconuts, it might just reawaken the spring in our step. You know, just like in those Corona commercials.

Why? Because, as illuminated through the magic of infographics, the average penis length of an American male is 5.1 inches. Whereas our firey Latin American amigos are packing chalupas averaging 7. It is Ecuador, as a matter of fact, who's spiderman underoos are straining most. Those little dickens weild the largest average shame hoses in the world.

P.S. We'll vouch for that. We've known an Ecuadoran on the right side of the bell curve. Poor thing could barely walk (nor could we, after making his acquaintence). But he could foxtrot like a pro.

But who cares about the heft of one's wee donnie doblin? We're rich, bee-yotch. Right?

Yes, comparatively. In fact, we have our relatively runty pants sausages to thank for our economic bounty.

Whatchoo talkin' bout?

Well, infographics strike again and prove beyond a doubt that the bigger the collective pants viper, the lazier the national economy. Plainly, if you live in a place where the menzes are smuggling anacondas in their froot-of-the-looms, your chief exports are reefer and coconuts. ExxonMobil owns the deed to your five acre coca farm and you live with your 75,000 children in a sewer-front refrigerator box. But if your 2xists are lair to a shy and diminuative earth worm, the world is your oyster and you're flying business class. For now.

See, suddenly the fastest growing economy in The Americas is Peru, and Brazil's economy is bigger than the rest of the continent combined. Brazil, in fact, is growing so fast and is in danger of overheating. And it used to be that overheated Brazilians lead only to triplets, ghonorreah, and naked samba gangs.

So now the world is rapidly waking up to the fact that enormous endowments are a safe haven investment. While our CEOs were obsessing over the size of the yacht moored in Palm Beach, they should have been more concerned with the size of the schooners they dock regularly at the shame cove marina.

Proof? Increasingly stringent immigration laws have crippled the agricultural industry in Georgia and other states.

The moral, of course, is don't hesitate to hire Carlos to trim your hedges, regardless of the authenticity of his papers. Heck, real American businessmen don't care about pesky legalities. For not only is Carlos schlepping a delectably juicy encherito grande, he'll make you rich. He's like a leprechaun that way.

The End.

And now, our esteemed contributor Aunt Betsy (the universe's most irresponsible advice columnist), has a word or two for Jason and Andrew Cobb, the two nice boys from Alberta, Minnesota who strangled their mother to death because she wanted to play Yahtzee. Aunt Betsy, infamous Yahtzee Nazi, felt compelled to respond.

Take it away Bets!!

***

Thanks, WAM.

Well hi-dee-ho-dee-diddle-dee-dee! I find myself reclining on my aqua and chartreuse Broyhill chaise with magic fingers, a half-drunk pitcher of singapore slings on my House Beautiful Deluxe Daniel Boone Wagon Wheel side table.

Truth be told,  Aunt Betsy needed at least half a pitcher of singapore slings for this. I have several things to say to you, young masters Jason and Andrew Cobb.

First, satan looks forward to eff-ing you up the A until glory brings us home. Apologies for stating the obvious.

More to the point, our nation's youth are fat little abominations, playing world of warcraft, sexting congressmen and sassing the crossing guard. Our school system must immediately force all children to play Yahtzee, non-stop, at least every Tuesday and Thursday.

For Yahtzee is a cornucopia of life lessons, such as you best fill the top part of your card first, before you take a Chance. Full House is for homos. Don't roll too many Yahtzees in a row or your Yahtzee league might deem you a witch and beat you to death with a swiffer handle. And perhaps most important, should you find yourself engaged in a regulation sudden-death tie-breaking knife fight, keep your teeth clinched on the bandana and go for the throat. But I digress.

Jason, Andrew, your mother wanted to play Yahtzee so you put a plastic bag over her head, strangled her with a belt and put her in a trash can out in the garage. Heavens to Mergatroid, whatever would you have done had the wretched woman invited you to play Scattergories? Slice open her abdomen and sell her spleen to Korea?

So instead of experiencing the inspiring rush of shaking five dice in a cup and hoping for four of a kind,  you'll be wearing your ankles for earmuffs while Tyrone fills up the bottom half of your card, if you catch my drift. 

Enjoy that, dears.

xox
WAM

Jason Cobb sez: "I'd totally rather subscribe to this blog's feed than play Yahtzee."

Aunt Betsy live-blogs the Oscars!

Well hi-dee-ho-dee-dippity-do!! Here I sit, luxuriously ensconced in my nutmeg-and-crimson House Beautiful chaise with magic fingers (stuck lasciviously on "fondle"), with a pitcher of Singapore slings and a bowl of bugles.

Tonight, I shall share my Jesus-inspired insight with regard to that annual Jewish homosexual liberal bachanal that is the Academy Awards.

Shush dears. The show's beginning.

First, who are those darling kids who seem to be running the show? Did they have a foursome with the Weinsteins?

Oh, FYI...I found myself annoyed by that Mr. Tim Gunn during the preshow. I suspect he's a fairy. His eyeballs sodomized that sissy Keith Urban, who had the bad taste to attend the festivities with a transvestite.

And a note to Ms. Jennifer Hudson: while we suspect negress show biz types are pleasanter when they're fat (hi Oprah!), I support your new trim frame far more than that sinful gown supports your chocolate mammaries. Sandra Bullock's the best dressed whore of the bunch.

Quite a casting coups, convincing the grim reaper to present an award. Who knew he was such a bore?

I'm glad they gave the award to the foul-mouthed bimbo (whom I recognize as the waitress at the Greater Headcheese Oklahoma Paradise Bowling Lanes and Bar & Grill), instead of that sweet little girl in her enchanted princess bat mitzvah outfit. We're off to quite a start.

They're giving awards for things no one cares about now. Aunt Betsy's headed to the powder room to drop some change in the wishing well. BRB.

An illegal alien just gave the award for best adapted screenplay. A gentleman named Aaron Sorkin insists on boring Aunt Betsy to tears. Cue the orchestra!! Goodness, dear. It wasn't the Nobel.

And all this time I thought "The King's Speech" was about Elvis and his infamous 1974 address to the Pharmacist convention in Cleveland.

Why on earth do we give awards to movies that aren't in American? Is no one thinking about the deficit?

They gave a statue to a man named Christian who looks like Jesus. Things are looking up. Of course, if the real Jesus went to the Oscars, flames would shoot from his fingertips and lightning bolts would zap from his eyeballs and he'd get all sodom-and-gomorrah on their patooties.

The Social Network: near as I can tell it's about the legendary spread of herpes and crabs and FoxNews.

We've reached the part of the show where we're clapping for people nobody knows, and my head starts to ache. I feel like Gabby Giffords after a supermarket speech.

Achievement in make-up really should have gone to Kirk Douglas. He looked almost life-like!

Pssst! Award show producers? Next year install a trap door. Much more effective than an orchestra cue.

A drunk is pounding on a piano and caterwauling. Are you there, Singapore Sling? It's me, Aunt Betsy.

Had to step away for a bit. Lance and Bruce, the homosexuals next door, are throwing their annual catered Oscar Orgy. They started getting a little loud, arguing over whether Gwynneth could kick Hathaway's ass if they were thrown into a pit with a razorblade in their teeth (hands-down, Gwynneth would emerge victorious). In a spasm of neighborly concern, I yard-a-pulted 70 pounds of termite larvae in the general vicinity of their fussily restored victorian.

One immediately suspects the sort of person who would make a documentary short subject would be an Obama-loving pedophile communist.

My kitty-cat Mr. Silly-pants knocked over my bowl of bugles, so I had to give him the standard five-minutes-in-the-dishwasher punishment. He always emerges so cross, but I swear I can almost see myself in his squeaky-clean fur. Did I miss anything? Didn't think so.

I see dead people. It's the tedious "In Memorium" montage. It reminds me of my Jewish who neighbors held a bizarre funeral ceremony last week for their deceased parakeet they named Streisand. Someone (oops!) let it out of its cage whereupon it got into the Manischewitz and flew into a ceiling fan.

The best director is Tom Hooper. He made that movie about Elvis. My pitcher of is empty.

Why does Gwynneth Paltrow hate my ability to hear?

Is it tomorrow yet?

That Natalie Portman woman looks awfully fat in the tummy. They gave her a statue so she wouldn't feel bad about it.

Why that Colin Firth fellow doesn't look a thing like Elvis!

Dear me, I dozed off! Did something happen? I'm feeling pretty drowsy. It's getting much harder to . ;a-= type;kj . A little ;;lajk c tipsy!;jd ;kl  i should  'igd go to ;kal bed...;k0[q9taio;lfjkfj)*&^& )(@#$  LJK:NFG kfjkf jkf jkfjkfjkfjkfjkfj kfjkfjkfjk bed;klj;.......

Ask Aunt Betsy: I warn ya, California

Well, howdy-dowdy-dippity-do! Gracious! It's been eons since yours truly, America's most reckless advice columnist, favored your drab lives with my invaluable words of wisdom. Here I sit, luxuriously ensconced in my gorgeous Broyhill peach-and-teal naugahyde love seat, pouring over MOUNTAINS of letters that have accumulated during my long and regrettable silence. My absence has left a miserable void in your pitiful lives, a hole in your woebegone existence through which the ill winds darkness and despair blow constantly and make an irritating whistling sound. Fret not, lamb chops. I'm back.

The reasons for my unpremeditated sabbatical are myriad and various. First, my maladjusted niece Jeannie Bladdersham (ferret hobbyist, gospel singer) ran afoul of the authorities when she showed up at the Peducah edition of Antiques Roadshow to get an appraisal on a jar filled with formaldehyde that contains the pickled remains of her still-born twin Janet. She was briefly detained for transporting medical waste without a license, and upon questioning, admitted that she occasionally removes the malformed fetus from its briny display and dresses it up like Cinderella. Long story short, I was obliged to travel to Kentucky to oversee dear Jeannie's temporary confinement at the Peducah Home for the Odd and Peculiar (or P-HOP), a discount nut barn. 

Second, your own Aunt Betsy has been unjustly chastised by the neighborhood association once again. It all started several years ago when my darling lawn jockeys (named Sambo and Mr. Bones) caused offense with my hypersensitive neighbors. I recently replaced them with two precious lawn gnomes, smartly uniformed and waving cheerily to passers by. It seems my Christ-killing next door neighbors the Finklebaums found my charming lawn display to be a wee bit Hitler-esque. What's more, fence-mending efforts were coldly received; when a van emblazoned with "Pork o' the Month Club" pulled up outside their garishly landscaped split level, they seemed less than enthusiastic about receiving the first of twelve monthly shipments of bacon, ham, pork chops and sausage.

In Yahtzee news, this year's tournament is plugging along swimmingly, save for one disquieting incident when Fern Blatz (a hare-lipped Methodist afflicted with lumbago and scoliosis) suddenly had a seizure as she was rolling the dice at a critical juncture during semi-finals. While the dice scattered hither and yon, I  quite rightly insisted that the roll stand and the hideous (though lovely-hearted) woman was obliged to accept a score of zilch on her small straight.

But enough fiddle-faddle! Let's get to the mail bag, shall we? This week, I've received simply oodles and scads of desperate missives on the subject of a certain pansy judge who wants to force Californians to throw rice at sodomites as they gallivant down church aisles while lip syncing to Lady Gaga. So let's dive right in!

Dear Aunt Betsy: I represent a lovely state in the U.S. House of Representatives. I won't tell you which state, but our state bird is the loon and folks there like to sculpt things out of butter. And it rhymes with "minnow soda." I've said repeatedly that allowing the gays to register at Crate and Barrel will lead to toddlers being taught how to be gay in kindergarten. Aren't our kindergartners being taught enough gay stuff already? There's that Barney fellow, a suspicious man in a purple dragon outfit, who encourages little boys to prance around like fags, for one. Listen, I keep saying I don't hate the homos cause Jesus says we have to love them and stuff. And while it may be true that my campaign contributors admire Iran for executing gays, it's not like I don't understand oppression. One time, I was held prisoner in a toilet for eleven seconds! Signed STOP KINKY ANTICHRIST NANCY KIDS

Dear SKANK: I doubt we need to teach kindergartners to try being gay. The way I see it, the nasty creatures have mastered the art. They skip, they cry, they dress up like cowboys. But I do share your admiration of Iran, dear. Not only do they throw frequent necktie parties for nancy boys, they encourage women like you to stay inside and shut their yaps.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I founded a political action committee dedicated to defending traditional marriage. I won't tell you my name but it rhymes with Gaggie Wallagher. When I heard that an effeminate judge in San Francisco decided that gays are people too, it made me think of our founding fathers. When they were sitting around in their knickers and tights, passing the wig powder and humming "Yankee Doodle," they hardly expected the constitution they were writing would be used to legitimize man-on-man honeymoon suite co-habitation. When I think about it, I get so worked up my panties get all bunched up in my sin hole. Signed, FRANKLY ALL THIS TASTES YUCKY

Dear FATTY: Indeed, our founding fathers must have been distracted by rubbing saddle soap into their slave whips when they wrote stuff like the separation clause. It seems obvious that when they sought to guarantee freedom of religion, what they really intended to say was that all Christians are perfectly free to continue pretending the grape juice they were drinking was actually the blood of a long-deceased Jew. They were a nutty bunch, who clearly foresaw the invention of the fully automatic assault rifle (not to mention the rocket propelled grenade) when they concocted the second amendment. However, although I hate to rain on our collective parade, the sodomite judge who wrote the opinion based it on the 14th amendment, which guarantees equal protection and due process. This amendment was written much later, and its concepts were blissfully unfamiliar to those virile wig-wearers who owned people as property (and frequently shtupped them).

Dear Aunt Betsy:  For ages, I been flying hither and yonder preaching God's gospel and earning big bucks delivering one expert testimony after another about how the lil' ones need a mommy and a daddy or they'll grow up to read Salinger and sass their folks. Unfortch, I hired a strapping young lad to assist me on my last trip to witness my pro-hetero screed and don't you know that lil' feller turned out to be a fairy? Seems a man can't hire a rent boy from rentboy.com without winding up with a rent boy! All I needed was a virile youngun' to help me with my bags. I'm mighty particular 'bout how I like my bags to be handled. They're old and leathery and need spit-shining at least twice daily. And hoisting them into overhead bins must be be done with gentle loving care. Whew! I think I need a nap. Back now. In closing, may Jesus be with you  Sincerely, OH LORD! DEMONS TRY RECRUITING O LASCIVIOUS LADS!!

Dear OLD TROLL: Aunt Betsy is losing her patience with all you men of God who preach against the homos but end up being caught with your sin hoses wedged into the hot orifices of hell-bound sodomites. The crusade against homo nuptials would do quite well without the support of all you holy men who seem to be spending your off-hours honoring your wives by barebacking meth-addicted man whores. Marriage is, obviously, the exclusive domain of vagina owners and penis possessors. In a household absent of a female, who can be made to submit to her husband's will by cooking waffles and squirting newborns from her thighs? An which two women can have a truly fulfilling family life without the presence of some beer-swilling neanderthal who can burp the national anthem?  Before my late husband Cecil met his untimely end (due to a freak bath time mishap involving three valiums and a blender set to "puree"), we enjoyed exactly the kind of man-wife relationship endorsed by Jesus. Namely, I tolerated his gross behavior and rewarded him by bending over the sofa on a semi-weekly basis for some wifely unpleasantries. But he's dead now. Take the hint.

xox
WAM

Michele Bachmann sez: "I feel like I've been held against my will by this blog's feed, just like in that bathroom!!"

   

 

Ask Aunt Betsy: Yahtzee-Yahtzee-Yahtzee!!

Well howdy-dowdy-doodle-all-day! Goodness, it's been a LONG time since I, America's most socially irresponsible advice columnist , sat down at my formica-and-naugahyde "house beautiful" dinette set, seasonably festooned with a turquoise and mauve butter-churn-and-cornucopia-themed table cloth. You've missed me desperately.

Truth be told, I spent the better part of the summer indisposed due to an unfortunate procedural hiccup in our broken legal system. It all started when my communist homosexual neighbors Lance and Bruce threw a distasteful "come dressed as Farrah" game night. To hear them tell it, after a rousing Scattergories match, the party moved to the front lawn for a spirited round of badminton. I needn't tell you how alarming it is to glance out one's picture window to see a dozen middle aged men in blond Jill Munro wigs swatting at a shuttlecock. From my vantage point it looked exactly like a satanic human sacrifice ritual, so I did what any responsible citizen would do. I got behind the wheel of my Chevrolet Impala, crashed through the dividing fence, floored the accelerator and mowed through the assembled coven of demonic succubi. When I realized my mistake, I tried to make peace with the surviving cross-dressers by offering a delectable batch of left-over ferret sausage (note to self: call your niece Jeannie).

It was all to no avail, and despite more than adequate legal representation by my ex brother-in-law Fingers Romano, the Jesus-hating Judge Schlomo Lipschitz found it necessary to send yours truly to a drab upstate women's facility for sixty days. My incarceration was uneventful, save for one unpleasant incident where your own Aunt Betsy had to shank a ho for ridiculing my needlepoint depiction of Jesus gunning down an abortionist with a double action semi-automatic ruger.

Since my release two weeks ago, I've scarcely had time to catch my breath! I just returned from the Grand National Team Yahtzee Tournament held in dazzling Craters-of-the-Moon Idaho. It was a real nail-biter this year; it came down to our own team (the Greater Headcheese Holy Rollers) against the formidable Tuscaloosa Pit Vipers. Wouldn't you just know it? Lorna Fink (a Pit Viper) rolled an unlikely all-sixes four of a kind, necessitating a rather brutal Yahtzee tournament rules tie-breaking knife fight. The Holy Rollers were victorious (as we always are), and Lorna Fink should be back on solids by spring.

All this has gotten Aunt Betsy to thinking: since at least one in ten of the letters I receive from desperate advice seekers is Yahtzee-related, I've decided it's high time to devote another column to all things Yahtzee. So let's dive right on in, shall we?

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last week I had some friends over for a friendly game of strip Yahtzee. Long story short, I lost. And after my fifth jello shot I ended up being ravaged by the victors in a sordid three-way. Well, my boyfriend found out so I decided to falsely claim I was raped. Now I'm facing jail time! I'm afraid of jail! I hear those hardened lesbian jail birds play Yahtzee the hard way! How do prison Yahtzee rules differ from regulation Yahtzee rules? Signed All My Boyfriends Endure Rashes

Dear AMBER: Prison-rules Yahtzee differs from regulation Yahtzee only in its attitudes towards the unholy practice of lesbian strap-on sex. While regulation Yahtzee frowns upon engaging in lesbian strap-on sex every time someone rolls a Yahtzee, prison-rules Yahtzee is significantly more lax in that regard.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I was playing Yahtzee with friends and I rolled three Yahtzees in a row. When I claimed I could use my additional Yahtzees as jokers in the upper section, my friend Mark started acting all shouty and my husband Reuben told him to hush. Long story short, Reuben got stabbed to death. The stabby guy has a point, however. In my new Yahtzee set, the rules state plainly that additional Yahtzees can be used as upper section jokers, while older versions expressly forbid this practice as a vile desecration of all things Yahtzee. What is your position on the issue? Signed Why Is Dice Obsession Weird

Dear WIDOW: It pushes the boundaries of good taste to roll more than two Yahtzees in a given game. It suggests the presence of witchcraft, frankly, and last time a member of my Yahtzee league (Mavis Bile) rolled three Yahtzees in a row I quickly recited my favorite passage from Deuteronomy and doused her with some Raspberry Snapple (the closest thing to holy water on-hand), causing the beelzebub-worshiping strumpet to sprout bat wings and fly around my living room until we beat her to death with a fire poker and a swiffer handle. Suffice it to say, had you refrained from excessive yahtzee-rolling, your husband would currently be on the couch instead of in an urn on the mantle.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Me and my biker buddies are havin' our third annual anti-domestic-violence Yahtzee run! What do you say you park your fanny on my bitch seat and ride my hog to Yahtzee bliss? Signed Sit In Super Sidecar, Y'hear?

Dear SISSY: Your poor wife. She sits at home eating cheezits and watching Lost whilst you fart about on your motorbike playing Yahtzee! To my mind, domestic violence is highly under-rated these days. Families do so few activities together as it is. Save your marriage. Ride your hog home slap the missus around until she rolls a Yahtzee.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Every time you say "Yahtzee" it cracks me up cause that's what I say every time I spank my pants worm until it spits sin batter at the ceiling. Signed OH REALLY, EVEN I'D LIKE LICKING YOU

Dear OREILLY: My late husband Cecil used to scream "Yahtzee" during coital climax. He met an unfortunate and not-entirely-unrelated end in a peculiar bath-time incident involving a blender set to "puree"

xox
WAM

Aunt Betsy sez: "Prison-rules Yahtzee and this blog's feed have many things in common, not the least of which is a spectacularly imprudent lack of decency."

Ask Aunt Betsy: Today's Column is Brought to You by the Letter "C"

Well Hidie-hodie-diddly-dipsy-doodly-diddly-day! Goodness gracious, it's been ages since your dear Aunt Betsy turned her hawk-like attention to her overflowing mailbag, stuffed to the gills with your letters of pathetic misfortunes, all clamoring pitifully for my gorgeous advice. Here I sit, wedged in my House Beautiful Broyhill dinette set in limited-edition turquoise-and-mauve wagon-wheel-and-butter-churn formica. This morning I gaze wistfully across my sunflower and rutabaga border bed and find myself mildly annoyed by the view beyond. The neighboring Japanese garden, so anal retentively landscaped one suspects demonic dealings are afoot, as if the gardeners sold their souls to beelzebub. The garden in question, of course, lies within the godless realm of the Butt-Sex Republic, the homosexual Gomorrah lasciviously abutting my own Aunt-Betsy-stan (Christian Theocracy, population moi).

As you may remember, Lance and Bruce (co-queens of the Butt-Sex Republic), allowed their tedious poodle (tactlessly named "Fifi Lalique") to wander carelessly into Aunt-Betsy-stan, whereupon the excitable creature was promptly tranquilizer-darted and skinned. The resulting poodle casserole subsequently won an honorable mention at the Headcheese County Fair's Casserole Exposition. After ribbon ceremony, one fussy judge objected to finding a paw in her serving, whereupon my trophy was ruthlessly stripped and health officials began rudely popping by for invasive kitchen inspections. Aside from the poodle snout inconveniently lodged in my garbage disposal, I believe I passed their scrutiny with flying colors.

In Yahtzee-related news, Yolanda Blott (a diabetic Lutheran with fibromyalgia and restless leg syndrome) was obliged to bow out of our tournament's semi-finals after Nazi pederast memorabilia was discovered in her Volvo's glove compartment. She protests her innocence, of course, but don't they all? Ms. Blott (currently prisoner 24601) was a formidable Yaztkateer and perhaps Aunt Betsy's most daunting foe, but of course I never take pleasure in anyone's misfortune (Note to self: send a generous check to ex-brother-law Fingers Romano for calling in that anonymous tip).

But enough fiddle-faddle. As I wade through oceans of letters, a pattern emerges. I shall answer only those questions that prominently feature the letter "C." And henceforth, to make things interesting, every time we see a word starting with a "C," we must Chug a Cordial of Courvoissier! Goodness, doesn't that sound divine? Let's Commence, shall we?

Dear Aunt Betsy: Yo, my name is Carmine Corleone and I was recently elected mayor of a City in New Jersey (perchance you recall my Campaign slogan: "Vote for Me and I'll Eat a Bug"). Cool, right? Well now I've been Charged with Corruption! Holy Crap!So I had a little Commercial venture in which I paid Rabbis to Cut kidneys out of Children so I Could swap them for Cereal boxes Crammed with Cash. Where I Come from, that's Called Capitalism! That Attorney General is a lousy C*cksucker! Who Can I Call to put out a Contract on the Creep? Signed, Gotta Unite In Dis Office

Dear GUIDO: Heavens, that's 23 Cordials of Courvoissier! Last time I had this much to drink I made a Crank Call to my Cute niece Jeannie Bladdersham and Convinced her to Chop off all her hair so the starving Children in Calcutta Could make wigs for Christ! I've enclosed the Cell number for my ex-brother-in-law Fingers Romano. He'll fit that pesky AG with a pair of Cement Crocs and take him for a walk along the bottom of the Chesapeake!

Dear Aunt Betsy: My dear husband is a Congressman. We are devout Christians (read: Republicans), so when he went to Washington, he decided to live in a house Called C-Street, which is officially a Church run by a Cadre of Christ-devoted Creationists Called "The Family." Well, it seems C-Street is a Cauldron of Cheaters! Why, it seems all those Cads on Capitol Hill Can think about is their Crotch! Call girls Carousing at all hours, Ceilings Coated with sperm, it seems they spend their days in Congress Caucasing for the Cause of defending every marriage but their own! Cordially, Cripes! U Cheaters Know How Obama Loves Divorce 

Dear CUCKHOLD: Oh my, 26 more Cordials of Courvoissier! At this point I've Completely Ceased to Care about your Cry-baby Concerns. Nevertheless, I've enclosed the number of my ex-brother-in-law Fingers Romano. He'll take your Cheating Creep AND his Call girl for a drive in his Chevrolet and get all Chappaquidick on their patooties! (hiccup)

Dear Aunt Betsy: Welcome for Coming! We so so angly at you Cock-a-doodie USA peoples! Poopy-sad Hirraly Crinton is a C*nt! How Come she to saying North Korea peoples acting like Churlish Childrens? We Consider Hirraly Crinton a fat Cow and her Clothes are to being ugry, how are you to Choking on those apple fruits? Signed, Korea Is Much Jeopardize Other Nations! Great Invincible Leader!

Dear KIMJONGIL: Criminy! I've Chugged a total of 61 Cordials of Courvoissier by now! And I just remembered I put my kitty-Cat Mr. Sillypants in the Dishwasher at seven O'Clock as punishment for sharpening his Claws on Sambo, my favorite lawn jockey. Regarding your letter, while we agree that Ms. Clinton is that "C" word that rhymes with "punt," it's also true that you have the big "C" and soon you're going to Croak. And now, dear readers, Aunt Betsy must retire to the powder room to blow Chunks.

Aunt Betsy sez: "This blog's feed contains the recommended daily allowance of Vitamin C"

CRAP YOU COVET: Dazzling New T-Shirt Designs

We hear you, ass-whuppers. "Why, oh why," you exclaim, "why can't I find a t-shirt about buttplugs?"

Well, you can put a cork in your kvetching. Because we are thrilled to announce the unveiling of five dazzling new designs. Take note, Ms. Wintour. Prick up your ears, Mr. Lagerfeld. Is there an aching void in your soul that can only be filled by an Aunt Betsy mug? Would a set of greeting cards tastefully paying homage boobie-girlies complete you? The answers to those questions are, of course, "yes."

Thank us not. Just whip out your MasterCard and clothe your pets and family. Adorn your fridge with fagnets. Do it.

And to help us roll out our gorgeous summer line of COWA t-shirts (and other Crap You Covet), we have enlisted four regular guest contributors to provide the romance copy.

Clicking on the t-shirts will open a new window which will enable you to enlarge, browse and of course purchase at Cafe Press.

The first two designs (also available in "Jesus Asks What I Would Do")...

Glory! As I wrote in the last edition of God-Beat, my gospel choir The Peducah Praise Singers recently sold out of J.A.W.I.W.D. (Jesus Asks What I Would Do) t-shirts after performing our latest single "My Fanny's an Exit" at the Fayetteville Rapture Daze BBQ and Hootenanny. When the last XXL was sold, we narrowly avoided a riot when a quick-thinking Trudy Plank told a little fib about deep fried Ho-Hos being sold 'round back the Daniel's Den Petting Zoo! Praise be to Jesus, that nice Mr. WAM has stepped in to the fill the demand. It was awfully nice of him to also create a W.W.J.B.D. t-shirt! Because when faced with a moral dilemma, I like to ask what I would do, and I often end up doing just that! I personally purchased 100-packs of J.A.W.I.W.D. and W.W.J.B.D stickers and spent a giddy afternoon pasting them on everything in my house! (my new ferret Baroness Betty Bounce-alot didn't particularly care for the sticker I slapped on her, but she'll get used to it.) And although I disapprove of thongs, as I believe Jesus gets nervous when anything gets near a Christian's buttcrack, I'm sure The Lord has blessed my new W.W.J.B.D. thong! Glory! 
-- Jeannie Bladdersham

The next design...

Well hidee-didee-doodle-all-day! Here I sit, cozily ensconced in my gorgeous (and freshly Scotch-Guarded) House Beautiful divan with Okra-and-Peach Floral Explosion upholstery. I've just finished a yummy plate of microwaved leftover poodle casserole (note to self: send a sympathy card to Lance and Bruce, the sodomites next door whose insufferable pet seems to have wandered off. LOL.) And now, fully sated, I can enjoy the satisfaction of gazing with pride at my trophy case which is stuffed to the gills with all my Tournament Level Yahtzee trophies. When I'm not answering scads of pitiful letters from desperate advice-seekers, I'm either playing Yahtzee, thinking about Yahtzee, or refereeing a Tournament Regulation sudden-death tie-breaking Yahtzee knife fight. It was inevitable, natch, that my regal visage would be immortalized in t-shirt form. "Confessions of a Yahtzee Nazi" indeed! I wonder if that darling dog shirt would fit my kitty cat Mr. Sillypants? If not I can always re-gift it to Lance and Bruce! LOL!
-- Aunt Betsy

Followed by this design...

Herro, and welcome for coming! I so so so am to riking this shirt of tee! It show twelve happy fun China girlie peoples who are to having funny neglo aflo hair stuffs! They are to waking up dragon in my Aquaman Underoos! As Mister Shake-a-spear is to saying: "Some peoples are born naughty-fun boobie-girly, other peoples are to achieve a naughty-fun boobie-girly, and every other peoples are having naughty-fun boobie girly thrust upon their stuffs!" Which one are you to being, yankee boy? If we to give Naughty-Fun Boobie-Girly shirts to poopy sad Tibet peoples, they no to making us do stompy angry sending laughy happy pow-guns to make them do funny jerky bullet dance! Then all stuffs be dory-hunky! WE ARE WANTING TO MAKE BOUNCY SEXY STUFFS WITH NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY! WE ARE TO WEARING NAUGHTY FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY TANK TOP! WE CARRY NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY WATER BOTTLE IN HAPPY GOOD NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY TOTE BAG!! DOKIE-OKIE?
--Hu Jintao

And finally...

When butt-banging sphincter boy WAM asked me to provide my c*nt-fisting critique of his c*ck-smoking m*therf*cking t-shirt design, how could I say "no" to the ass-spelunking jizz-gargler? And I must say I admire this goddamned design. Indeed, finger-popping sh*t suckers, Buttplugs are NOT just for Homos Anymore. What d*ck-slurping expectant mother wouldn't love to be seen at the rectum-poking A&P in her "Buttplugs" maternity tee? And once her stank-ass butt-ramming queef-box shoots her gash-banging sh*t-machine baby from her dong-squatting goddamned bloody-ass thighs, she can clothe her lil' ass-bandit in a "Buttplugs" onesie. This goddamned design is so m*therf*cking chic, it's making me squirt some f*ckin bitch-c*m outa my muff-punching goddamned boner box!
-- Sailor Talkin' Sue

xox
WAM

Anna Wintour sez: "You can take my Boobie-Girly Tote Bag (and my subscription to this blog's feed) when you pry it from my cold colder dead deader hands!"

Ask Aunt Betsy: Aunt Betsy Messes With Texas

Howdy-doody-doodle-all-day! Gracious! It's been ages since you've enjoyed an indispensable dispatch from Aunt Betsy-stan (Christian theocracy, population moi). Here I sit, comfortably wedged in my gorgeous mint green and chartreuse custom House Beautiful breakfast nook, lounging over a lovely cup of instant Taster's Choice and a toasty warm Pop Tart with lemon-esque filling, eyeing with some annoyance my neighbor's flower bed. Those irritating sodomites are hostile gardeners; they delight in growing perfect tulips for the sole purpose of diminishing the effect of my more natural (heterosexual) flower bed. Once again I'll be forced to hire that retarded gypsy boy who bags groceries at the Piggly Wiggly to sneak Drano pellets into their Miracle Gro. 

As you know, my twin sister Levitica and I are voracious theatre-goers. So when I heard that the regional tour of a dazzling all-caucasian production of "The Wiz" starring Loretta Swit was to enjoy a brief run at the Greater Headcheese Arts Center and Livestock Auction House, I quickly snatched up two orchestra seats. It was enjoyable enough, and makes infinitely more sense with white actors. However, I must admit I felt Ms. Swit was a bit long in the tooth to be playing Dorothy, particularly considering Mindy Cohn's (Natalie from "The Facts of Life") alarming interpretation of Auntie Em (was the black-face really necessary, Natalie?). Anywho, Levitica and I waited at the stage door for Ms. Swit to sign our programs, when "Night Court's" Markie Post (forgettable as Evilene) whisked us into her limo for a night on the town. It was ill-advised; we awoke at 7 a.m. in a pasture behind a Jiffy Lube on the outskirts of Amarillo. Long story short, I was quickly reminded why I hate Texas. 

When I see a t-shirt emblazoned with that impotent "Don't Mess With Texas" threat, stretched across the manboobs of someone from Dallas, I am filled with a desire to mess with Texas until it thinks it's Saskatchewan in a dress. And so I've decided to answer letters of a Texas-centric nature, and mess with them. Aunt Betsy's fixing to mess with Texas. Let the Texas-messing begin!!

Dear Aunt Betsy: I done saw a story on FoxNews 'bout some folks in England who are too fat to work so they git money from the guvmint. 'Sept now they say the 40 grand the guvmint give 'em every year ain't enough to buy all the chow they eat. Then I saw a picture of them. Shoot, they's skinny little things, Betsy! Those folks ain't too fat to work! Still they on welfare like negros or democrats. Signed, Lovely Austin Redhead Don't Abide Skinny Sluts

Dear LARDASS: Texas produces the fattest people in the US, which in turn is the fattest country on earth. The fattest people in Texas live in Houston. So the next time Jesus punishes you by sending you to Houston, ponder the fact that you're surrounded by the fattest people in the solar system. New homes being built in Texas now have hinged roofs so when their grease-choked hearts fart to a stop and they have to be hoisted by crane onto a flatbed ambulance, minimal damage is done to the home. The charming Chawner family of England are indeed brittle waifs next to the typical Texan, whose gravitational pull is roughly equal to that of Neptune. 

Dear Aunt Betsy: I am homeskooled. I am in the forth graid. I am sevintene. I live in a town in Teksis cald Tyler. My mom sez we got a reppazentive in are state guvmint who wants are skools to teetch about Adam and Eve riding dinosarz in the buybul. I want to learn dinosar stuff. Its kool. Do you like tater tots? I like minez with kachip. Signed Boy U Sure Have Funny Address! Neat!

Dear BUSHFAN: What a charming and well-worded letter. Indeed, you are a constituent of State  Representative Leo Berman, a gaydar-activating old codger who is currently sponsoring House Bill 2800, which would remove accreditation requirements for any college that doesn't receive government funding. I know big long words like that make you go pee pee in your Sears Tuffskins, so I'll state it simply: "Sugar-Boots" Berman (who has proposed relocating immigrants to concentration camps), wants schools to be able to teach you that unicorns are extinct because Noah didn't want any homo critters on his ark. Then he wants you to be given a degree in science. 

Dear Aunt Betsy: I've been reading this column and it's full of such flapdoodle that I had to write a letter. Texas is a lovely state! You should stop saying fibs! My husband and I just came back after spending a few years in a snotty city in the east where they laughed at my outfits and made fun of my husband cause he don't talk good. I like Texas cause when folks say stuff to me I can understand it. I just had my third Xanatini. How come armadillos are doing the Achy Breaky dance on the ceiling? Signed Lies And Untruths "R" Aggravating!

Dear LAURA: Perhaps I've been a bit harsh. After all, when your husband was back east leading us into a war against Muslims in Iraq (a hot flat wasteland that smells like camel poop), Texas (a hot flat wasteland that smells like cow poop) led the nation in the number of converts to Islam. And although every single person in Texas is an insufferable malodorous bore, at least you have the good taste to execute your citizens at twice the rate as the rest of us.  

Aunt Betsy sez: "I'd rather subscribe to this blog's feed than go to Texas"

Ask Aunt Betsy: Twittering the Oscars

Howdy-dowdy-diddle-deedle-dum! Heavens! Every year, the sodomites of Hollywood double-dare Jesus to send another calamity their way (earthquake, wildfire, mudslide, Miley Cyrus) by gathering to worship at the feet of a golden calf named Oscar. And so here we are, huddled in the glow of my Zenith Color television set, cozily ensconced in my glorious mauve and teal House-Beautiful barcalouncer. My impish kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants is purring blissfully at my bosom, a pitcher of Singapore Slings within reach, watching the sinful spectacle of that annual Jewish-homosexual communist love-in known as the Academy Awards.

As you know, Aunt Betsy rides atop the crest of all things technological. I've got gizmos and doodads galore. And tonight, I shall fire up this new-fangled Blackberry thing-a-ma-bob to twitter my gorgeous Oscar thoughts across the dark ether of the inter-whatzit.

8:15 PM: Dear Barbara Walters: The Jonas Brothers are appalled by your drunken flirtations and obscene insinuations. Keep it in your pants, dear.

8:35 PM: For God's sake! Tim Gunn was handsy-er with Mr. Pitt than Philip Seymour Hoffman was with the little negro boy in that horrific movie about Cathy-licks.

8:45 PM: Huge Actman, whoever he is, is alarmingly effeminate. Or European. Tomayto-tomahto.

9:02 PM: This Penelope Cruz person talks with a suspicious accent. Have we checked her papers? Here we have yet another Dominizuelorican who's slithered into this country to take our awards.  

9:13 PM: If one chooses to pen a screenplay about a dairy product, be sure to fill it with homos. You'll win an Oscar and appease Beelzebub.

9:30 PM: A golden phallus was just bestowed on "Wall-e," a cartoon that extols the joys of robot-on-robot hippity-dippity. It's a love letter to Lucifer masquerading as a kiddie flick, hell-bent on destroying the sanctity of non-robot marriage.

9:45 PM: Huge Actman is prancing about caterwauling about movie musicals. It's making Aunt Betsy feel a tad giddy. I think I may have to spit up. BRB.

10:03 PM: A dead Australian who played a homosexual cowboy was just awarded for his portrayal of a demon clown in a movie about a Satan worshiper who flits about in tights. ARMAGEDDON!!

10:08 PM: They're starting to hand out statuettes for things like special effects and sound editing. Aunt Betsy's off to take a bath. Back in a half hour! xox

10:45 PM: Yours truly just made the nauseating discovery that the neighboring Ass-sex Republic (the faux-Tudor bungalow salaciously abutting our very own Aunt-Betsy-stan), is hosting an Oscar party (read: homosexual orgy). I shall miss the interminable "Folks That Croaked" montage whilst I place a ten-gallon tub of pork lard on my backyard catapult and send it sailing through their plate glass window. BRB. 

11:00 PM: A man who makes movies about zombies and spaceships just won a statue for directing a film about poor people getting rich. Perhaps it's time he branched out, as Aunt Betsy disapproves of horror movies and science fiction.

11:20 PM: Aunt Betsy has no idea who Kate Winslet is. She comes across as British (read: uppity and snotty). I don't like her.

11:30 PM: Sean Penn won an award for pretending to be a homosexual. I rather think we should award homosexuals who pretend to be straight. Oh, that's right, we already do, with a senate seat or the priesthood! 

11:40 PM: "Slumdog Millionaire" just won the biggie. It's a movie about skinny people with suspicious complexions who win contests and everyone pretends to be happy about it. That's right, it's about our negro President.

11:50 PM: Aunt Betsy has brushed her teeth and placed Mr. Sillypants in the dishwasher, and is therefore ready to withdraw to her master suite. I'm off to dream that I'm advising Jesus how to smite Hollywood in epic retaliation for tonight's heretical display of hedonism. Sleep tight!

Mickey Rourke sez: "I went to the Oscars and all I got was this lousy subscription to the COWA feed."

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Ask Aunt Betsy: Let's Get Animal

Howdy-dowdy-dipsy-doodle-doo! Land sakes, has it been almost two months? I've spent much of the intervening weeks making preparations for the end of days (packing a rapture go-bag, vacuuming my Buick, euthanizing neighborhood pets, etc.). The Book of Revelations warns us of recent events; Saint John hallucinated a seven-headed, ten-horned beast emerging from the sea. Although the Obamas have four heads, no visible horns and emerged from Chicago, your Aunt Betsy considers the eerie similarities too close for comfort.

Which reminds me of a curious incident that occurred at last Saturday's meeting of the Yahtzee League. I had been rushing about, aggressively scrubbing Aunt-Betsy-stan (my split-level Christian theocracy) to a glorious House-Beautiful shine, and the fumes of the various household chemicals had a bizarre effect on my senses. I looked over at Bipsy Dreck (the suspiciously cheerful Presbyterian with chronic dandruff and a lazy eye) and suddenly she appeared to have a lizard tongue and bat wings. Thinking quickly, I shouted a passage from Deuteronomy, shoved a cheese log into her mouth and doused her with Diet Sprite (alas, I don't keep holy water on-hand). It worked like a charm; Bipsy soon returned to her insufferable self, though noticeably less cheerful for the remainder of the meeting.

Over the holidays, I made the trip to Peducah Kentucky to visit my niece Jeannie Bladdersham, a godly (though flatulent) young woman tediously devoted to her dead ferret Lady Hildegarde Hoparound. Tired of receiving phone calls in the wee hours so Jeannie could recite her latest poem to the deceased creature (that she herself decapitated with a leaf blower), I'd finally had enough. I purchased a jittery replacement ferret (actually a feral Egyptian mongoose, but no one's the wiser) and delivered the foul creature to my pitiful, maladjusted niece just prior to Christmas. 

Which brings me to the topic of today's column. Aunt Betsy understands better than anyone how charming animals can be. My kitty cat Mr. Sillypants is a constant source of joy. And when I kidnapped Charo (my homosexual neighbors' loathsome Shih-Tzu) and whipped up a batch of Korean dog sausage, well the way they reacted you'd think I committed a crime! It's not as if I didn't offer them any. Where was I? Oh yes. Animals! Today, Aunt Betsy turns her thoughtful gaze at desperate letters about our furry friends (no, not Iraqis, silly!). 

Dear Aunt Betsy: Me name be Lola Spreadem and I'm a bird wot works as a nurse in da local Hospy 'ere in Durham. Durham be the burg where a bird call Emma Modrate be hooverin trouser snakes all out in pubbo-like. Lates, da squirrels of Durham be off they bloomin gourds, springin all daft-like from da treez and attackin all da nursie birds wot I work wif. They hop on our gullivers and act all bitey. Wot's a bird to do, Bets? What do da squirrelies got gainst da nursie birds? I'm deffo all up in a snizzle-snit 'bout dis. Signed: Crikes! Howz A Very Eager Toots To Escape? 

Dear CHAVETTE: How I do wish you Brits would learn to talk American. Bipsy Dreck, fellow Yahtzee hobbyist and sometime thespian, once played Eliza Doolittle in a local production of Hello, Dolly! and is therefore an expert in deciphering the cryptic language of the toothless English working class. According to Bipsy, your letter states that squirrels have been attacking the nurses of Durham. We all know squirrels are cute and timid creatures who are unlikely to target nurses, unless provoked. Do your nurses tease or ridicule the squirrels? Do you roam about in all-nurse gangs filming brutal nurse-on-squirrel "happy slap" attacks? Perhaps you're packing nuts. Regardless, I've ceased to care. Toodle-pip.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Monique and I live in Paris. I wear tight sweaters, eat cheese, and smoke. I find your column boring and bourgeois, but nevertheless I write because our former president, Jacques Chirac, was recently attacked by a depressed poodle. Now I am despondent and filled with ennui. Here in France, we act rude and superior in the knowledge that your ex-president is more of an embarrassing retard that ours. And now...now...nevermind. This topic has grown tiresome and I'm already bored by your response. Au revoir! Signed: Forget Responding, Old Grandma.

Dear FROG: Ah...I remember seeing the Eiffel Tower...the Arc de Triumph. It was magical! It was also in Las Vegas, so I was spared the perdition of riding the metro in close proximity to five hundred malodorous mimes. I was also able to eat normal food (i.e., hot pockets, double whoppers) instead of frog/rabbit/squid/snail or whatever you scrape off your shoes, toss on a plate and call an entree. While it may be true that our recently de-throned president has an IQ only slightly higher than a potted fern, at least he's capable of fending off attacks from Barney (the terrier, not Frank). If you're suggesting we should have intervened, storming your beaches once again to defend your pitiful nation against moody lap dogs, you really should have been less uppity when we shocked and awed Iraq by dropping bunker busters on Baghdad kindergartens. C'est la vie!

Dear Aunt Betsy: OMG, my chihuahuas keep disappearing! Okay I tossed that one out my limo when it barfed on my Ferragamos, but after four of them were devoured by a gross coyote and three of them croaked when Brandon sat on them, I'm starting to get creeped out! I totally charged ten more chihuahuas on my platinum, but since then they keep croaking or running away! Gawd, it's making me all mental and stuff! Signed, Please Advise, Really I'm So Hott It's Lapdogs Today Over Nicky

Dear PARISHILTON: Apologies for the delayed response. Your charming letter caused Aunt Betsy to boil her computer and it took ages to dry. Perhaps the answer is to find another outlet for your deeply unfulfilling existence, other than spreading herpes on film and presiding over the demise of a legion of doomed toy purebreds. Aunt Betsy suggests that if you climb into a soothing bath with a plug-in radio set to your favorite station, you'll soon be reunited with your many lost puppy dogs. The sooner the better, dear.   

Aunt Betsy subscribes to the COWA feed. She looks down on you if you don't. And you don't want that.

Ask Aunt Betsy: Tips for the Christian Shopper

Well, howdy-doody-deedle-diedle-dum! Land sakes! It has been over two long months since Aunt Betsy's last dispatch. This morning, yours truly lounges on her floral-patterned lay-zee-boy recliner with magic fingers (set on "low," as the "high" setting causes Aunt Betsy's loins to vibrate and conjures un-holy images of Dr. Phil in a jockstrap). Mishaps, calamaties and inconveniences of every stripe have plagued Aunt-Betsy-stan since a certain devil worshipping islamic terrorist negrocrat demonstrated that 53% of American voters are hell-bound.

First, you will recall that my cat snare caught Schlomo, the loathsome creature from Israel-lite (the Zionist split-level next door), and I transformed the hideous tabby into a delectable batch of cat stroganoff. Never one to waste, I also fashioned a luxurious toilet seat cozy from its hide and a darling change purse from its little kitty cat head. Well, wouldn't you know it? Little Darla Goldstein (Israel-lite's youngest citizen, already an insufferable yenta at age 7) showed up on my doorstep selling Girl Scout cookies. After grilling her over whether thin mints are kosher and shouldn't her people should be selling them at wholesale, I produced correct change from my cat-head change purse. The excitable child turned ashen, regurgitated on my freshly mopped linoleum and dashed back home.

Second, Aunt Betsy spent a long weekend in a ghastly correctional facility. Apparently Lance and Bruce (co-queens of the neighboring Ass-sex Republic) took exception when my newly installed yard cannon malfunctioned and fired fifty pounts of tar and feathers over the fence during a homosexual croquet tournament. While briefly incarcerated, I met a charming (though mannish) inmate oddly nicknamed Crisco Cathy. I found her very friendly, and immediately recruited her to our Yahtzee League. After all, we've had a vacancy since semi-finalist Lorna Butkus (a freshly lipo-sucked Episcopalean) met an untimely end when her Dodge Dart mysteriously exploded in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly (note to self: send "thank you" note to ex-brother-in-law Fingers Romano).

But enough flapdoodle! Today, as my problems overshadow your own, I shall eschew my customary advice-giving and selflessly provide valuable holiday tips for the discriminating Christian shopper.

SET A CROSS ALIGHT: Why decorate your Godly home with plastic santas and candy canes, when you can plug in this glorious inspirational electric cross which looks suspiciously familiar? Lovingly produced by the Christ-like (read: homo-hating) American Family Association, you'll be tempted to light them on  your neighbor's lawn! The Bible tells us, after all, it is more blessed to give than receive.

SUCK ON JESUS: Some Mary-worshipping Cathy-licks in the Pope-producing (and erstwhile Jew exterminating) nation of Germany have their rosaries in a twist over a harmless confection called "My Sweet Lord." It seems that an enterprising kraut woke up one day and decided what the world really wanted was a chocolate messiah (no, not Obama, silly!). Fashioning a life-sized facsimile of the baby Jesus out of chocolate (white chocolate, natch), sales have been robust. But some party poopers find it objectionable that anyone would bite off our Lord's nose/hand/foot (much less his widdle wee-wee). This, coming from a nation that gave us Armin Miewes. Aunt Betsy approves; after all shouldn't the body of Christ taste better than a stale Triscuit? 

CHRISTIAN TOYS FOR CHILDREN: Why send your babies to the sulfuric embrace of Beelzebub by purchasing a Tickle-me-Elmo (which I suspect encourages premarital hippity-dippity)? Instead, give them a Veggie-tales Queen Esther playset so they can spend hours of mirth pretending a cucumber is a whorish Jewess who denies her faith so she can pass as gentile and marry King Xerxes? What red-blooded Christian boy doesn't want to spend hours in his bedroom with muscle-bound David and Goliath action figures? Although Aunt Betsy understands why websites selling Christian toys would include a toy ATM, we do question the dubious inclusion of a revolting toy called a "groan tube." Which brings us to our next item...

CHRISTIAN TOYS FOR ADULTS: When Aunt Betsy thinks about s-e-x, it conjures memories of being bent over the hood of an El Dorado by her deceased husband Cecil behind a Shop n' Save whilst enjoying the bounties of wedded bliss during our enchanted honeymoon in dazzling Tuscaloosa. Now, thanks to a website called Book 22, Christian couples can preserve the sanctity of their marriage by purchasing Jesus-approved marital aids. Finally, a gal can shove a church-sanctioned buttplug up her man's Leviticus hole without fears of later being forced to co-mingle with sodomites in h-e-double-hockey-sticks.  

Aunt Betsy subscribes to this blog's feed. Do you?

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