Mardi Graaaaaaaaaaaaah (and other stuff)

I was in New Orleans for two days and three nights for Mardi Gras (yes, Mardi Gras is early this year, I'm very tired of explaining to people that Easter comes early sometimes, and that Mardi Gras is planned around Lent or whatever, because I'm insanely not religious so I can't explain it properly anyway, but I do know that Fat Tuesday is today, which means Lent starts tomorrow, which means Mardi Gras started last week, okay?).

Things I managed to avoid:

• Puking on the street
• Getting puke/excrement sludge on the cuffs of my jeans, something we were actually warned about on the plane on the way there (ew)
  
• Making out with anyone ugly (or making out with anyone at all, come to think of it)
• Getting groped/raped/molested or in other ways sexually harassed (ok this is only 95% true)

Things I did not manage to avoid:

• Getting my boob grabbed by this old guy, but it was kind of my fault so I let it go, I was flirting with him because he bought me and my friends like 100 drinks and a $700 dinner at a fancy restaurant. Yes, I am a whore for swordfish.
• Spraining (I think) my hand when some d-bag chucked a huge bag full o' beads at me off his float. You could argue he was trying to be nice by giving me so many beads, but he WHIPPED this thing, it bent two of my fingers all the way back, If he'd hit me in the face I'd have almost definitely lost some teeth. Fucker.
• Learning the glory of taking really nice wine from a fancy restaurant out into the streets in a freaking "to go" cup. Ah, New Orleans.

All in all, a good time. I'd go back, but might be too old after this, because after only two full days my liver feels like it's about to explode. I imagine it's plotting its escape plan now, soon I will be in excruciating pain as it attempts to burrow out through my colon or something (ew).

I am not in a healthy enough mental state to discuss the SuperBowl yet. But basically? The Pats choked hard. I think this choke might even be worse than the 04 Yankees dropping four straight to the Sox after getting them on the ropes three games to none, but it probably just feels that way right now because my pain is still so fresh.

Okay, so I will give the Obligatory Romance Update.

I managed to NOT blow it on date three (inconceivable!) and have successfully continued seeing He of the New Year's Resolution Ruination (if you recall, I declared I was giving up dating for three months as my resolution). Though we haven't gotten to hang out much due to my insane travel schedule and his schooling schedule, I believe we are now at 6 dates, 100% more than my usual Tommy Boy Pretty Pet Freakout Blow It All point.

This is almost unprecedented. I can't even count The Ex, because he was (for whatever reason, though I attribute it to my thin-ness at the time of our meeting) so totally enamored of me in the early days it would have been near impossible to drive him away.

So, yeah, I'll keep you updated.

Speaking of thin-ness, I'm like....SO not. I've been getting really caught up in the Fat Acceptance movement lately, not actually doing anything to participate but getting thoroughly obsessed with reading blogs from some really freaking smart bitches who write about how, you know, fat people are actually people. (Who knew!? All this time I figured I was an alien from the planet Lardassonia, where Twinkies grow on trees--there HAS to be an explanation for Banana Twinkies, right?) (Mmmm, banana twinkies.)

Only problem--the point of those blogs is that they promote health at every size. Meaning, you can be fat and still healthy, and exercise, and all that great stuff.

Why is this a problem? Because while I am coming to terms with the fact that I will never ever ever evah be "thin," I'm also not so healthy lately. I drink like a sailor and eat shitty things, and haven't seen the inside of my gym in three months. D'oh.

So I think it's time to get back on that. I'm not going to re-join Weight Watchers for the 100th time, but I am going to at least try to embrace that "health" aspect of Health at Every Size.

Soooo, that's it I guess. I'll be back with Obligatory Romance Updates as they become available.

The FuManchShoes 100th Post Semi-Spectacular Excellence Post for Being Excellent

Alternative title for this post - Dump what out, exactly? (I'll explain later)

Ah, the 100th entry. For my 100th entry on my very first blog in the stone ages of 2001, I did a cheesy 80s sitcom retrospective, where I took a contrived "event of significance" (buying my first car) as an excuse to reflect, just without the awesome "blurry screen of implied flashback."

Instead, how about we just give some updates on my current life, eh? Considering, as my friend Sara bitches to me constantly, I haven't updated since "August 20th! August, 20, Fu...wtf!"

We'll work backwards from right now, I like that gimmick.

Right now: Eating chicken soup and taking in "Desperado" on TNT, which isn't as good when so heavily edited, but still holds up. Is there anything Steve Buscemi makes an appearance in that *isn't* awesome? Sidebar: Just saw a commercial for the "Vagisil Home Screening Kit," which featured a woman talking about her burning cooch and wondering how she could possibly know whether she had an infection. Ummmm....Why would anyone with a burning cooch go out and buy some home swabbing kit to see if they had a yeasty? I mean, good god woman! It's called a gyno. Look into it. Can you imagine being the store clerk that has to check that one out at the register. I'd probably pop a blood vessel trying not to laugh. Me = Mature.

Last night: Out on the town in Manch Vegas as usual, managed to spend seventy effing dollars, which explains why we ended up walking home. It's only a mile, but I defy you to undertake such a crusade. In high heels. With skeevy Manch types asking you "where's the party?" and honking at you from their drunkenly careening automobiles. Then there's the creepy dudes hanging out on the porch, who asked us to "dump 'em out." "Umm, dump what out?" "Your titties, what did you think!?" Ooooh, dear.

Tuesday Night: My biiiirthday, my b-b-b-b-b-irrrrthday! Man, 28 years on the planet. You'd think I'd have more to show for it than a pile of wicked nice shoes and potential liver damage.

Last Weekend: In DC, where I dared to ask the question, "can a person who was up until 5 in the morning the previous night make it through a dainty bridal shower tea party with zero alcohol and live to tell about it?" The answer, sadly, a resounding "Oh, hell no." Have you ever had massive detox shakes while attempting to tell a story about the bride and groom for every peanut M&M in your hand? Yeah. Good times!

August: Busy month of birthday parties, road trips, beach outings, nights on the town, way, waaay, waaaaay too much alcohol, and jsut general shenanigans and good times.

SO, yeah. That's about it.

Oh, you probably need the Obligatory Update on My Love Life.

ManchGuy: He looked a little like Paul Giamatti, he was nice enough, but definitely gave off "just not that into me" red flags left and right. So I cut him loose, and he didn't put up much of a fight about it. Eat it, Paul Giamatti.

Oh, Canada: The Canadian Guy. Well....god only knows. He is allegedly coming to visit in October. We still email back and forth with a frenzy generally reserved for more physical activities. You know, like ping pong. Or beer pong, for that matter. Regardless, to put on my "dorky chick hat" for a couple seconds, "I rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly like him." But I guess we're just still on "wait and see" status. And don't even get me started on how terrified I am that he's going to get off the plane, take one look at my fat ass and be like "Um, wow, how much did I drink the night met again? Oh, man." and then just leave. The paranoia fatties subject ourselves to is surreal. It's not like he doesn't have access to two dozen different photos of me on Facebook and stuff, and it's not like he's Tom Brady himself, and yet, I sit here and stew about it.

Speaking of Tom Brady, are we ready for some football?!? Mmmmm.....

I'd Normally Make "Rock Hard" Joke Here, but...

...ew. No really, ew.

Snapped this with my camera phone a while ago and forgot about it. But I had to freeze frame my TV (God bless DVRs, right?) to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. I was watching the "Lost" finale with a friend, when a Cialis commercial came on. Cialis commercials always kill me, for a couple reasons:

1) The couple in the commercials is always old. I know that old people do it too, just look at Jack Nicholson, but it's still funny to think about.

2) There is ALWAYS side by side outdoor bathtubs involved. What do you suppose the logistics are of getting a bathtub outside? This strikes me as a plumbing problems. Second, what if the guy gets it up while in the outside bathtub? Does he get up out of his tub and join his wife in hers? What if someone sees? There's no shower curtain. You see my problem. Third, I think doing it in an outside bathtub would...suck. Especially for oldies. Someone is bound to break a hip.

But while this particular commercial was airing, well...wow.

"Is that a dick?"
"What?"
"Did you see that? There was a dick-shaped rock formation in front of the side by side bathtubs."
"Oh, there was not!"
"No, seriously, look!"
(rewind, freeze frame)
"Oh my god! That's a dick! EW!"

Like, for real Cialis. Or maybe it's just been so long since I've actually seen one that I'm hallucinating.

The Weekly Numbers, Easter Edition

Good god! Didn't I invent the weekly numbers to be...weekly?

It's been months! Which, I suppose, ought to be the first official number of this, the reinstatement of the Weekly Numbahs.

4: Number of months since the last Weekly Numbers. For shame, Fu, for shame....

8: Current number of episodes of "The Wonder Years" stored on my DVR. But come on! I found out it was coming out in syndication, I figure I will record all the episodes from the very first one, figure out how to burn them on DVD's, sell them on Ebay and make a fortune! It's gold, GOLD I tell you! They won't ever come out on DVD, apparently, because the music rights are so hard and expensive to obtain. I'm not sure, but I feel like it's Michael Jackson's fault.

3: Number of times I've watched the pilot of "The Wonder Years" since I first recorded it last week. Man, this show was probably my all-time favorite show growing up. It was so much better than freaking "Full House" or "Growing Pains" or any of that other shite. Too bad Kevin Arnold grew up to be so dorky looking, but his involvement in both this and "The Princess Bride" cements him in my official "Fu Will Always Love Forever" group.

(Oh my god, though, seriously, this show is so f'n good. The one that was on tonight was when Kevin broke up with Becky Slater--who was so badass, by the way, so much better than that prissbag Winnie Cooper--and she punches him in the face. Then he has a "Star Trek" dream sequence with him as Kirk, Paul as Spock, and Becky and Winnie dressed up as go-go pussycat Fem-Bot alien life forms that attack them. It was SO good.)

6: Approximate number of inches taller Winnie Cooper was than Kevin Arnold in these first season episodes.

About 20: Number of cigarettes smoked in the first three months of the year...which is actually pretty good when you consider that about 18 of them were smoked all in one bad weekend.

About 20,000: Number of cigarettes smoked over Easter weekend. Man, oh, man. On the Stairmaster tonight it felt like my lungs were going to leap up into the back of my throat and start seeping out through my ears.)

2.5: Number of days in a row I went without feeding my cats this weekend. I was distracted! One of them could use it, too. They're fine. Shut up!

48: Number of hours it took between me meeting a really cute guy that told my friend Alicia he liked me, and him being all over one of my best friends instead. Good times!

1: Pounds of chocolate consumed in the last two days since the no-candy Lent period ended.

18: Minutes until I give up candy again, for at least another two weeks. It's clearly just necessary.

12: Number of times I voted for "American Idol" tonight. I know, I know.

8: Days until I get to go to D.C. for the weekend!

134,487: Number of cigarettes I will probably smoke, with or without the damn smoking ban.

5-10: Inches of snow expected Thursday night. (Seriously? SERIOUSLY???)

21: Confirmed Jack Bauer kills on the season. Can you even imagine actually being Jack Bauer? "Jack, what'd you do yesterday?" "I killed 21 people, including my own brother and former colleague, in about the first 18 hours I was awake...and god knows how many after that. What did YOU do?"

0: Number of things I have left to say....

Will try to make the next set of numbers more interesting...when they come out. Next quarter.

First Off, It's a Rooster

I just saw this commercial during "American Idol" (I can't even talk about it, consider me officially OFF the Sanjaya bandwagon...not that I was ever really all the way on, but I might have been being drug behind it because my shirt got caught in a door or something...), and it disturbed the crap out of me.



Maybe I *DO* wanna be a french fry.

This is like the Chips Ahoy commercial where the cookies are all excited about getting eaten.

(Well, wouldn't you be?)

Feelin' Hot Hot Hot

So, my St. Patrick's Day acrobatics on ice left me with a throbbing lower back that practically has me sleeping flat on my back on the floor with my knees hugged to my chest just be comfortable (or, as I like to call it, "taking 6 Advil PM and sleeping however I damn well please).

After a week of this, I decided that maybe it was time to haul my ass back to yoga.

Not just any yoga, mind you, Bikram yoga. As in, "won't it be fun, on top of the agonizing contortions we're already forcing you into, if we jacked the heat in the room up to--seriously--108 degrees so you feel like you're not only going to tip over, but also die, then possibly puke and poop in your pants?"

Speaking of pooping in pants, upon leaving this 90 minute torture session, my shorts were so thoroughly sweat soaked that they flopped about uncomfortably on my butt and thighs, bringing horrific flashbacks to pissing my pants in the 4th grade becuase freaking Mrs. Webster woudln't let me go to the bathroom until class was over, and my poor little 8 year old bladder just couldn't take it.

*shudder*

But yeah, the yoga. The thing about it, is that I'm actually surprisingly flexible. ("That's what he said!") (Man, I really wish "The Office" would come back.) But when you're doing this shit in 108 degree heat, you tend to feel, basically, like you're going to spew chunks all over the cute little hard-bodied 100-pound girl in front of you, who is offending your fat rolls with her freaking bikini.

(Seriously, a lot of girls wear bathing suits to this class becuase the sweat pours off you in buckets, which would have explained the shockingly high number of men in my class, if I hadn't ascertained that they were in fact mostly gay.)

Luckily, I managed to keep my chunks in my belly, and I only had to sit out one set to do it.

I've never before done a workout that has made me wish for my own death for more than an hour, but then make me anxious to return as soon as I can scrape up another 12 bucks. I guess for me, Bikram yoga is like that asshole guy that verbally and mentally abuses you, and makes you feel like utter poo, but then sends you flowers the next day or something and sends you running back to his arms.

Okay, shitty metaphor. But seriously! I can't wait to go back.

That's What Friends are For?

"Someone smells like FEET."

"Yeah. It's me."

"DUDE."

"I've been wearing these tights since 5 this morning biatch, and, uh, I wore them to work yesterday. I didn't know I didn't have any other tights or hose in my house that were run-free to wear on the plane! Leave me be!"

"You are disgusting. You're making me gag."

"Thanks, dude."

"I have Febreeze, you cannot come back into the room until you spray yourself down with it."

"I've been in an AIRPORT for like 16 hours! This is discrimination!"

She was even more appalled when I went to put the tights on again this morning, but what was I gonna do?

"If I don't wear these my legs will freeze off, I know it's gross, but I will burn them as soon as I get to New Orleans!"

"Don't do it. I'll puke if you do it."

"You're supposed to look NICE when you fly on an employee buddy pass, and this is the only nice outfit I brought, and I have no other hose. I was not expecting to get stuck overnight here, cut me some slack!"

"You're supposed to LOOK nice, how are you supposed to SMELL???"

As it turned out, I didn't make the flight, and I'm in DC for the weekend. The offending tights are wadded up in the bottom of my luggage, and I am now nicely showered and wearing very clean socks.

But you got to love a friend that will tell you when you smell exactly like you'd spent the preceding 36 hours in air travel hell on Earth.

So now there will most definitely be no live-blogging from Mardi Gras, becuase I'm pretty far away from New Orleans. Which sucks, but at least I get to spend the weekend with my peeps in DC.

As long as I promise them to remain clean and odor-free while here.

(I don't normally stink, I swear!)

This Entry is Super Gross (Just fair warning...)

(Seriously, you may not want to be friends with me anymore after reading this, but I've got to get it out there.)

Honestly, what is everyone's deal with the shower?

I am sick as a dog right now, and was recounting to my mother the amount of phlegm I hocked up in the shower this morning even after blowing my nose, and was complaining about how I am basically just giant ball of phlegm and how unfair it was, and she interrupted me and got all grossed out:

"Wait, you blew your nose in the shower?"
"Well, yeah. It's nice and steamy, loosens everything right up."
"That is DISGUSTING."
"Well, I just find it easier to, I don't know, expel things in a nice steamy environment!"
"I can't even talk to you."

Let me just say this. I get a stuffy nose all the freaking time. I dont' know what I'm allergic to, but it's got to be something, becuase you can count on "be" pronouncing "by" "embs" like this for the duration of the winter season, even when I'b not sick. And I've tried a variety of potions and elixirs for this ailment, and nothing works.

And the only thing that helps in the morning when I wake up with a brick for a head is getting in the shower and honking it all out. (Wow, I'm just really not going to have any friends...oh well!)

But if you're going to be gross, isn't the shower the place to do it? It's like peeing in the shower.

WHAT is the problem with peeing in the shower?

1) Urine is actually sterile, people. No germs. STERILE.
2) It goes straight down the drain.
3) It is then followed down the drain by soapy water.

So what's the problem? My ex-boyfriend was horrified and disgusted when I came out to him as an occasional shower pee-er (Come on, it's not like I'm addicting to the shower pee, it's just that if I forget to go beforehand I much prefer letting rip in the shower than having to sit my wet ass down on the toilet afterwards...the feeling of sitting on the toilet when you're freshly showered sickens me, it's the thought of all the germs that are probably on the toilet seat clinging onto my damp skin...~shudders~).

"You PEE in the SHOWER?"
"Well, yeah."
"THAT's DISGUSTING."
"Oh come on , it is not."
"That's where I go to get CLEAN? And I'm standing in your PEE?"
"Dude, I found half-eaten week-old chicken bones in your car the other day, and you're lecturing me on cleanliness?"
"At least I don't PEE in my car."
"Well, neither do I. Just in your shower."
"GAH!"

Seriously, the guy was one of the top three biggest slobs ever (after Pigpen, and me of course), and he gave me a hard time for peeing into a soapy drain.

I think the world is just divided into two groups: Those who don't think it's okay to pee or blow one's nose in the shower, and those who do.

And I think it's high time for the people in the former group to quit giving those of us in the latter group a hard time. After all, we know you don't always wash your hands after using the public restroom, and that's SO much worse.

Our Balls are 12 Inches In Diameter!

Well, becuase you all failed me in determining what, exactly the infamous Christmas Kissing Balls were (as I did figure that they do not sell sex acts at Home Depot), I was able finally to Google them myself and figure it out.

Apparently, the Kissing Balls work like mistletoe, and you're supposed to kiss under them. You know, the whole tradition of mistletoe is truly brilliant. This reminds me of the time my friends and I went out to the bars wearing Santa hats with mistletoe tied to them. It was a brilliant tactical maneuver that worked wonderfully, if you don't take into consideration that the boy I ended up making out with that night later turned out to be engaged (d'oh).

I'm just glad, for all of us, that the kissing balls mystery has finally been solved. But since the website advertising these balls proudly states that they are 12 inches in diameter, I don't recommend tying them to your Santa hat in a pathetic effort to get a piece (hey, come on, we were 22! Like you never did anything retarded when you were 22?).




I'm off for a 5 day visit to my old stomping grounds in DC, and will most likely not blog while I'm gone. I'm planning a two-tiered attack of wine and benedryl (which I actually need, I seem to have developed some sort of skin condition between last night and this morning...just what I need for the three dozen parties I am attending in the next week!) to combat my flying anxiety, here's hoping it works.

If it doesn't, perhaps I should just hang out in my office's bathroom for a while first to give myself hypothermia. I hear when you're dying of hypothermia you actually acheive this sort of mellow euphoric state after the backbreaking shivering and teeth breaking chattering.

(Seriously, it's so cold in there I thought my butt was going to get stuck to the toilet like in "A Christmas Story.")

No, I Do Not Want Balls For Christmas

Okay mates, someone explain to me about kissing balls. You've all seen my post from a couple days ago with the pic I snapped at the Home Depot (while wreath shopping with my mother, thankyouverymuch) advertising "Kissing Balls" for the low, low price of 24.99!!!

Well, it seems my day spa has joined in on the holiday fun. They are of course, much fancier about it. The picture sucks and the word balls is obscured by holiday bric-a-brac, but you'll note that not only are their balls ripe for kissing, they are Victorian balls, oooh! And You also can't see it, but the blurb beneath it reads, "Yes they are magnificent, and yes, they are for sale. These are a great gift for you or for a friend."



"For me?"
"Yes, I hope you like it!"
"Oh my goodness, Balls!! Just what I always wanted!"

So please, anyone with intelligence to offer on what in holy hell kissing balls are, please leave a comment.

My dad and I watched the new show "My Boys" tonight. I liked it, but found the constant droning sports-metaphor voiceover VERY irritating after about 2 minutes. The show works just fine without the damn voiceover. We GET it, she likes sports.

Watching the show led to an enlightening conversation about modern dating, with my DAD of all people, who hasn't dated in 40 years and thinks all people you meet online surely must be murderers.

"As opposed to drooling idiot drunks you meet in bars that are just going to slip a roofie in your drink and drag you out to the parking lot? Is it more acceptable to be murdered by a guy you meet in a bar, or online?"
"Shut up."

This led to me going off on an hysterical rant about how much I can't stand dating, because you're supposed to do that thing where you don't let the guy know how much you like them, and how ridiculous I think it is and how it means I will end up alone becuase I am never ever capable of this performance. If I like someone, it sort of shines through. And if I try to act like I don't, well, it shines through anyway. I think every guy I have ever crushed on has been painfully aware of it. (Painful for me, anyway.)

Dating advice from Pops:

"What you need to understand is, men are primal. We are hunters. Would it be any fun for me to go hunting if the deer just popped out of the woods and said, 'Hey here I am, go ahead and shoot me!'? No, no it wouldn't. Men like to go off into the woods, and maaaaaybe catch a glimpse of the deer, and then the deer runs away, and then they have to follow it, and then they see it again, and they take a shot at it! But they miss, so they have to follow it some more. That's why hunting is fun."

"Dad, you went hunting every year for like 20 years, and all you ever did was sit around in a log cabin and get hammered with all the other idiot males in this family. THAT's why hunting is fun. You never even GOT a deer."

"It's a metaphor!"

"Well it's STUPID. I think if the whole purpose of hunting is to get a deer, then you should be tickled pink if a deer said 'Hey go ahead and shoot me!'"

"The whole point of hunting is NOT to kill the deer. Once you kill the deer, your fun is OVER, get it?"

"Shut up."

Generally, my father and I only have conversations that end in the phrase "Shut up."

But we say it with a great deal of love.

Note to self: Do not discuss dating with 55 year old father ever again.

Note to readers: If even one of you leaves a comment on this post entitled "your dad is totally accurate, dude" I will literally kill myself. Do you want that on your conscience?

There will be no comments, unless they relate to balls.

Thanks,
The management

My Parents Are Grosser Than Your Parents

"Will you STOP spitting in the trash can???"

"Where am I supposed to spit??"

"You could try not spitting at all, or at least the sink."

"That would be disgusting."

"Well what if I need to get something out of the trash and I touch your spit?"

"There is no way my spit is more disgusting than your breath. What did you EAT?"

Yep, these are my parents.

(Days until I move: 7)

Sold!

Chronic Masticator

My office is quiet.

Too quiet....

I like it, generally, because it means I get my work done without a constant drone of copies being made, tv news, the guy who sat in the cube next to me at my last job babbling on about some such nonsense to no one in particular, phones ringing off their hooks, folks doing it in the supply room, coworkers braying about food in the conference room, people walking up behind me in the cube and saying "knock knock" (which, yeah...don't do that), and various other noises and brouhahas that contributed to my every day in my last office.

Here, I can procrastinate in peace.

The problem, however, is that I am...how shall I put this? A loud-ass bitch. I talk loud, I walk loud, I type loud, I think loud even, and I'm not even sure how that's possible. And also? I guess I chew about as daintily as a yak working over some particularly gristly cud.

I've only discovered this since I started working in a cavernously echoey tomb, of course.

This office has 20 foot high ceilings, hardwood floors (upon which my high-high heels go clippity-CLOMP every time I have to pee, which, seeing as how I consume approximately three liters of water daily, is pretty much always), and treMENdous acoustics.

And while I do enjoy my own private office (hip-hip...hooRAY! Hip-hip! Hoo-RAY!!!!!), the walls only go up a standard 10 feet or so. Which actually makes for a very pretty office indeed, but also allows for the guy sitting at the other end of the hall from me to hear that guttural, alarmingly hog-like noise the back of my throat makes when I eat my fat-free pudding.

I'm really starting to get a complex about this.

(This is the point where you're asking yourself, "isn't this blog supposed to be about shoes and beer and wine and stuff?)

Oh, all right.

Pretty Shoe That Sarah Wants of the Day:



Christian Louboutin Tassel Slingbacks. It's like the shoe has a TAIL! A pretty, pretty tail!

Pink Does More Than You Think (Like Make Me Sick)

So yeah, this blog looks Pepto-y. And watching Gilmore Girls tonight made me all nauseated (it's nauseated people, not nauseous, got it?). And then I saw that Pepto Bismol commercial that makes me question my own humanity, becuase I'd really like to find the ad agency that came up with it and throw everyone on that account team into a wood chipper.

Pepto Bismol people: So, what do you got?

Account Team: Well, we've got a line of people doing a macarena-like dance, clutching their tummies to show that they got a rumbly, and then clutching their ASSES to show that they're about to spray diarrhea everywhere!

PB people: I love it!

The result, which may turn out to be a terrific advertisement...for TIVO, so I can fast forward through it.