A Letter To All Of My Sons: From Your Paup

Dear Sons,

-Yogurt "Davis" (15)
-Flusher (13)
-Tash (16)
-Muggert (14)
-Flaun-Dan-Dan (15)

First of all, I just wanted to utter that I have spirit feelings in my loins for each and every one of you. But I've been hurtpained lately because of the horseshit badness in my life. An angry bowel movement came over me last dawn when I fought all night to win. I lost the battle and I broke my sad-exit.

That brings me to my next talk.

Ever since you started wearing those no-room sparkletrousers, I feel like you've been spending more time hoofing after busch than turning jaw with your ol' Paup. It hurts an old dust closet like me knowing that my own littleboys don't even want to spend multiple ticktocks with me.

That's okay, sons. Paupa will be ok. I know you buggerts have been busy. Your singsong project is popular with wetholes! I've noticed. I saw your music video on KR-TV Cinsee-Natee and many softmouths in the crowd lusted for you.

I also wanted to congratulate you boys on your bigtyme win at the Regional Owl-Meat Cookoff. I read about it in BIRDFEAST magazine. I saw when you tried to put that squaker in the boilwater. Boy! That featherbody didn't want in! NO SIR!

Well, I'm sure you heard from the wordpapers that you daddy got put in jailbars for doing some murders. Sorry but I can't see you boys until they let me go freebird in 100 years. My bunkhouse buddy Jerry Popsicle says that if I drink other man's blood than I can live for long enough to see you smallpotatoes again.

Joyous Wishes and Wonders,

Paup

CINSEE-NATEE STATE JAILBARS

INMATE # 7890343-69

FULL NAME: FAWN-DANG "MANNY THE MINEFIELD" VIGGER

"Smoothskin Bip's" Tender-Touch Young Human Care Building

"Every day I give a sugar lump to a hungrymouth. And the youngbodies love the tender smooth touch that only I can bring with my meatpaw."

-Bip "Smoothskin" Raisinmeat

Smoothskin Raisinmeat is America's prime uncredentialed child hypnotherapist/bodypetter/confection-maker. He owns and operates Pencil-Vania's premiere child storage warehouse: Smoothskin Bib's Tender-Touch Young Human Care Building.

Millions of dozens of people have sung the praises of this fine organization. For over six days, we have always been a great place for smallpeople. Tens of tinyflesh softfaces have ALREADY piled into the brainhelp centre/touch house/candy eatery.

Uncle Brownskin, a strange kind of fellow--who's a father to some of our child-clients--has this to say: "These pals love my babies. They hold and cuddle them like they were baskets of sweetfruit from the forest. You can tell Smoothskin Raisinmeat cares about nothing more than a ticklerub or two and preparing tiny sugars. He does sweat a lot, though."

Kipland Roundside gives his personal testimony: "I swear by the lord Jesus that I love his sweet kidney meat. His hair smells like Brut Cologne, just like my Great Grandmother Crunt."

But the praises of satisfied customers aren't all we have to impress you with.

Many youngs have been healed of their communicable diseases by Smoothskin Raisinmeat's Enchantments and Spells. Most headthinkers don't realize that Dr. Raisinmeat is MORE than just a man. He's a certified health warlock, designated a genuine "Sparklefinger" by the East Chico California Community College Community Outreach 100% Free Degree Giveaway Award Ceremony.

If you and your longhair have created youngpeople and you need to store them in a place with gentlefingers, put them in the capable sweatpalms of Dr. Raisinmeat.

Turd Smoke World Tour 2002

In entertainment news, we've learned that popular "Crap Rap" act The Bowel Boyz, from North Central (El Angeles), are going on a rather unique tour. According to their band manager, Smelly Two Turds, the group will be riding a skiff down the Mustard Sippy river, performing their worldwide hits for an audience of floating brownlogs, bump rocks, mudwater, swelt, bloodflies, scum, critters, and river odor.

Cat's Crotch caught up with Grumpy Groaner, one of the singers, so he could clear up some of the mystery behind the tour.

CC: We heard you were taking a tour down the Mustard Sippy river. And on a wooden skiff. Why there of all places?

GG: This is true, yes. We'll be playing this show for bubbles, smears, dunks, thickets, brambles, branchsticks and smellwater. Most importantly for me though, the warted hoppers that live on the river bank. Thing is... the warted hoppers have such small ejecting holes that when they bust a brown, it hurts. We decided to dedicate the Turd Smoke World Tour [2002] to them--because they are the true heroes of the art of smellcakes.

CC: But Warted Hoppers don't talk language, nor do they understand the nuances of fun-notes, or have the reflective spending rounds to buy tickets to help offset cost of tour. How will you reconcile this?

GG: When I was a kid, my mom used to get real droopy-down and her viewing orbs would become moistiened. She used to wander out by lake and help warted hoppers go to the bathroom by rubbing "Pucker Chet's 'Make it Easy' Easy Slide 'Come on Out' Cream" all over their swell-muscle tunnels. It made her feel better.

CC: Thank you for your time, Grumpy Groaner. Good luck to you and your bad smell crew.

GG: Thank you, Cat's Crotch. I read your publication with my kids on my lap while they go to the bathroom. I love what you guys write.


Here are the stops along the Mustard Sippy in case you want to pepp a glance:


Promotoer: Pon Nan-Nan Opening Act:Foul Mouted Ben Location: Teggart Swamp Bonus Round

Promotoer: Breaded Broot Opening Act: Terry the Toucher Location: A Floating Log (L:23.2/L: 65.6 N)

Promotoer: Muggus Opening Act: Pond Boggler Singers Location: Snit

Promotoer: Pip Opening Act:Sing Me A Merry Tune Location: Rising Bubbles

Promotoer: Mutch Tut Opening Act:Sounds of Grandfather Location:Pained Turnbuckle

Personal Ad: Charming and Looking for Snatch.

Girls, I’d like to introduce you to the winning smile of myself. Myself, being Chauncey Stacy Turnbuckle. You may have heard of me. In fact, I’m sure you have. Why, I’m the sultry, debonair, owner of the Timbertown Dudge dealership where if I can’t sucker you out of more money than you can afford “I’ll eat my own shit”. Coined the phrase myself. Women, you’ll be pleased to hear that the same lips that my own fecal mattress pass by are available to as many as are interested. That’s right. Now, I may have Summer Teeth but I assure you that tumble from my word faucet will have your little mind as captivated as if you were at a Saleen Denon concert that you wont even mind that your tongue is going to flicker over several holes in my face if not just outright gums. Your mind will be my plaything. Excuse me for jumping to conclusions. Do what you will. You ladies have your own thought ideas, but know this, once you smell the eat items I procure for yourself on the hood of my marmot’s pustule you will know then that it’ll be time to hang our ornaments by the chimney with glee. Our whoopsies will crush all other momentary loves you have had in the far future and galaxies will shatter in a multitude of inconsequential beheadings. Far be it for me to toot my own nibble-naggle, but I’ve been keyed into a fortune of manly hood that must be passed on with you and you daughter brothers. Scribes have writ in cave holes this side of the prairie that this man, son of Preston Tracey Turnbuckle-Overstructure has a drive. That drive is to set you, my small-brained woman, on firestone. This is a several time engagement that will remain ongoing far past a length you can stand. Take a chance. Call me. If not, I’ll call you. Give your home numbers over to me along with your home unlockers.

State Department Releases "GUIDE TO BELLY RUBS"

The State Department has released their annual guide to safe practices of Belly Rubs 1997--"YEAR OF THE GOLDEN CROWN OF ALL HUMANITY (THERE WILL BE NO BETTER YEAR)."

In this year's guide, you'll find deeper explanations of pourt-spittle, a step-by-step guide to giving your significant other a supper-tyme "Vivian Schnyder", and, perhaps most notably, an illustrated guide to wiping up puddles of noot if and when your partner's sagged porthole begins to wheeze and leak. The best way to clean is with with Gary's Gentle-Hand Gentleman Hand Rags (Pictured Below).



Here are some excerpts from Chapter 17: Continuous rubbing on a fiddle-diddle-duckus.

"When a grown man or longhair rubs on a diddle-duckus, what he or she may not understand is that they may be dealing with a fiddle-diddle-duckus..."

"...Every Hork and Nupple on the very tip of the VORK is within potential squirt radius."

"...So it is with every sunset that a beard-wearer must dunt his caverns to find signs of shrivled bunnerds..."

"Pucket-flops ARE NOT an uncommon sight."

"...Neighing whispers may occur in the final period of stasis during which an accredited enchanted willy must rup your duckus counterclockwise in order to remove any hex larger than tenfold earthclod."

Inspiring Tales of Real Life Humans With Dusty Snoot Snouts: A Young Adult's Picture Story

Prologue:
"Snoot snout" means your asshole.

Slice 1:

Danny Fistpiss is the coolest hunk at playschool. He drives the girls wild when he shows off his vast collection of Craftsman drill bits and broken glass shards. Some of his peers say Danny should be president of the moon one day, because "fuck this clown ass planet" - peers.

Danny drives a Honda Racetruck that runs on actual liquid "horse's power", which is a horse's driving will to run strident and free that every horse is born with and no body can take away from them, even the white pilgrims who kind of took advantage and were unappreciative of the horses at first because they didn't understand horses as well as the Natives of this beautiful beautiful land did. BUT, as much as it seems that Danny Fistpiss has all the right moves, and as much as it seems that he has what it takes to make it happen in this crazy life, and as much as it seems that he's cleaning this situation up and moving the streets in the right direction, and as much as it seems that he's taking charge and making strides toward a successful future, and as much as it seems that he's buckling down and pulling up his bootstraps for a fight against apathy and doubt, and as much as it seems that although sometimes he won't come out on top, he knows that he probably learned something valuable along the way and isn't going to let setbacks cloud his focus on larger life-goals both personal and altruistic, Danny also has something that no man worth his girth in fat stacks would ever wish upon anyone's family... A dusty snoot snout.

Testimony:

"Sometimes my snoot snout gets so dusty that it gristles LOUD when I power jam a field goal basket. It's really embarrassing, but it's something that I've always lived with and have learned to manage on a situation-by-situation basis." - Danny Fistpiss

2nd Chunk:

You may recognize the "Golden Corral" Family from their hungry exploits on commercial television. (From L to R: Jared Ribsmoke, Lori Nipple, Mart Flemp, and Phyung Kwang.) While we and our not-dead-yet loved ones tune in every day to see which restaurant chain will please the disgusting needs of these gut slop craving fuckers, in reality, the actors who portray this Crumbstick-Award-winning fake Hollywood family are actually all individual sufferers of the scourge known as dusty snoot snout, and each deserves our sympathy and support. Even the lady ones.

Testimony:

"Hi, we're in the mood for baby back ribs and also for someone to clean and moisten our weary snoot snouts. You see, they're far too dusty and we've been putting up with the discomfort and embarrassment for so long now, that even the slightest relief would feel like heaven to our coarse, dry, tundra like snoot snout walls, ground and ceilings."

Partition C:

If you were somewhat disturbed by the real life tales of our previous dry anused heroes/heroines, then I know this next picture must come as SHOCK to you, likely sending your already blown minds into a fierce downward spiral, and leaving you on the verge of SERIOUS squirtage. Now, I understand that your first reaction to this kind of revelation is probably doubt, then denial, then a weird warm feeling, then kind of a slow pulsing pain but not like... sharp pain? like a weird big bowling ball pressed against your side or something. Well, as official author and researcher of this book, I want to give each and every single reader my ABSOLUTE PROMISE that the man you see above; affectionately known the world over as United States President Barack Obama, is HIMSELF an unfortunate victim of the desolate, depression era dust bowl wasteland, gravelly ass plague that is dusty snoot snout DUHZEAYSE mm hmm.

Fair reader, whatever your politics may be... Whether you're a snake nosed rowzsnuffler, or a clam puckered fip-fapper, you must sympathize with the plight of having to run an entire country while toiling in the hellish trashcan doldrums of snippy fucky fuck fuck snoot snout problem zone area feelings. And for you sufferers out there, it's this kind of high profile celebrity that needs to come to the forefront of snoot snout suffrage and TAKE A M'F'ing STAND. Yes, and I know you're reading this Barack Obama, because I got your picture right there, so if you'll excuse my frankness, the time is now Mr. President. I've got the ball rolling on snoot snout awareness, now it's time for you to follow it up. Okay, now I guess I'll get off my soap box that I've placed on my high horse.

No testimony was given, but here's an applicable quote:

"Do the right thing" - Spike Lee

This is the next one in the sequence of parts to the story:

Unfortunately, I am without a personal back story for the family shown in the above photo because they were too embarrassed to give me their social security numbers. However, the picture came with an accompanying handwritten testimony which I will now run un-edited.

Testimony:

"HELP! OUR DADDY'S SNOOT SNOUT IS SOOOO HUGE AND DUSTY THAT HE MADE US CLEAN IT WITH A CHRISTMAS TREE!!!! THAT IS NOT SNOW ON THE GROUND BUT RATHER THE COLLECTION OF DUST THAT WE CHIM CHIMMARY CHAROOED OUT OF HIS CRACKLY SNOOT SNOUT ON THIS OCCASION!!!!! PLEASE SEND OINTMENT AND A ROCKETPACK AND A PONY."

Ultimate Hope:

Unfortunately for our brave and irritated souls, no medically approved cure has yet been discovered to relieve a dusty snoot snout. =(

HOWEVER, through years of my own personal underground research I have uncovered a gleaming ray of hope. I have found unequivocal evidence that the only way to escape the barbed wire tumbleweed shackles of this unfortunate affliction is to contact a certain Mr. Bonesaw Mcgraw, and have him come to your cabin and personally kick you in the fuck. According to my research notes and formulas, the utterly wacky shit released from this catastrophic kick has been known to temporarily alleviate the dry and dusty reaches of the snoot snout regions.

So... If you have the means (Duh... Mr. President, HELLOOO?!?!?) to acquire the services of Bonesaw on a thrice daily basis, you now have a chance to lead a normal life again, or, as in Danny Fistpiss's situation lead a normal life for the first time. (Danny Fistpiss was born with a dusty snoot snout because his grandfather smoked crack. Tests have shown that all others acquired the disease from stuffing a watermelon seed up there at some point or another.)

In closing, I ask that we as the human race only try harder to be aware of the problems that surround us, and do what we can to help those in need. I think I've done my part, now it's your turn America. Like my friend Spike says at all of his college commencement speeches: "Do the right thing!"

Ripping Tors of the Graham Cracker Factory

I had a night-spending with friend Horehound Bundtcake on Gruesday evening. We've been hard-grip handshake partners and career pip-tit-sniffers ever since Senior High (when we had sour drop warts). On hot winter nights, we take long hun-hogs, pump our tigs, and punch his old little brother, Crip Zandanna in the snog. Crip was hammered by a white collar when he was eight so his head-ham's hunkered inside his brown exit.

Before latemeal on Guesday, Horehound, Crip and and I went to "Thuck Bendover's Turnaround Bend Down Late Night Movie Establishment" to find an old release. Once we got to the store, Crip squatted and ejected a mass of lumpy, brown, age-old grape drink inside his undergarments. It was a wicked-boondoggler of a smell. We had to hide in the Romance section until the odor cloud transversed to nowhere.

While we waited, Crip went searching for a moving picture in the "Grimace" section. He came running back with a film called "Ripping Tors of the Graham Cracker Factory" on Laser Disc. We wanted to rent "Sheila turns down Tork for Bumpus" on VHS but we were afraid that Horehound's parents would gravel us, so we stuck with Crip's choice.

Here's my telling of "Ripping Tors of the Graham Cracker Factory:"

In 1969, Browntunnel Tubesniffer was an expert slickhair who collected stacks of money to spend on live nudes. He lived in a largecastle named "WOLF FORT." The movie starts with Browntunnel huffing the fleshtunnel of a longhair named Snort. He was interrupted by a massive Tor who ripped him face to face with it's pumpernickel. Drippings spilt everywhere!

The movie continued in modern tymes with the main character, Crouch Mantail, looking for TUGS with his fellow Graham Cracker Factory workers. What he didn't know was that Tors were lurking underneath the old wood floorboards. Crouch grabbed a triple-barrel firetrigger and blew fastmetal at the beasts. Then it ended. It was a blast. We all hated it.

(This writing was recovered by the Dunt-Pupper Force-Gun Gold-Badge Department after the triple-blood stillbody findings of stiffs: 1) Horehound Bundtcake 2) Pan Roundbottom 3) Crip Zandanna)

Savage Growlers

As new food/money exchanges flood the market near the landfill in East America, Cat's Crotch took to the streets to ask the Citizens of Tater Tot, New Hampshire Jr. to find out how much they scarf or snap in an average span of one moonrise.

"I'm here for the breast regions. Their moist consistitude fill my loins with regret."
-Bibbins O'Hannahan (Restaurant: Full Belly Rick's Talon Animal-on-a-Plate)


"Every time I come here, my soul-ghost departs through my aynus due my excessive mouthbone gyrations. My choice book item is the deep-fried, triple-baked Desk Wood."
-Sandbox Riffkin, King of Yonkers (1958) (Restaurant: The Gentle Coot-Petter)


"My wife and I like undersea dippers. We come here every Lungfish season and try the free beef. My son, Chili, likes to try the Whalebone Sliders. I prefer the Raw, Shelled Chicken Parts. For my hard earned copper spending rounds, it doesn't get any better. You eat what you want and throw the rest on the floor. The waiter just comes by and cleans it up."
-Pinky "Breezer" Gulp-Jenkins (Restaurant: Old Fegget's Seafood Facehounds)


"I'm sure to bring my in-pant droppage container whenever I come here. The owner always gives me extra dark fluids but he'll never tell me what the ingredients are! One day I convinced the food-bringer to tell me. He said that there's mugget, togs, hot-press burkey, processed heavy matter, and a generous portion of sapp. He also said the chef always puts an added dose of battered-nuck in my dark fluids, because he knows how much I like my battered-nuck."
-Jeremy Circumstance (Restaurant: Fluid Charter Cookery Tours and Hospital, LLC)

In conclusion, many leg-walkers have discovered incurable diseases hidden within their pressed mork.

The diseases include:

-Boondoggler's Frown
-Sound No-Hear
-Sad, Sad Umpuss
-Pan
-Hunk Biter's Clamp
-Rolled Innards
-Immovable Formed Brown Columns
-Belly Fuss
-Cheek Swell
-Tooth Remove
AND
-St. Jeremiah's Baseball Disease

R.I.P. Tennis Hardapple (1910-2010)

In an unfortunate (and highly sexualized) turn of circumstances, Popular Romance Novelist Tennis Hardapple has passed away. His beloved legacy has bulged and throbbed it's way out of the jeans of the literary world over the past 10 decades.

Tennis was found dead alongside his lover, Pip Snuggler III. The coroners office determined that before the time of their deaths, they pumped eachother full of an unusually high dose of mum-ducket. Autopsy reports confirm that the couple stood on the bed and rib-dib-dibbed for hours on end before finally yup-doolding into the corner in fear. Both of their lives ended deep in their king size restroom as they attempted to rinse their innards with warm, buttery Irish Cheese.

Mr. Hardapple's memory will live on in the swollen, discolored overfilled grape bags of snatch-hungry male clamsnarfers.

As the nation mourns, Cat's Crotch wishes to cast light on the numerous contributions Tennis made to trash-can literature.

His most notable being:

-Pork Me Again, Rita
-Clap Trap
-Revenge of the Clap Trap
-Wiggle Jones, Jimeny Widget and the Bubble Brothers
-Choad Force 2000
-Pink Rim Riders of the Desert Sky
-Urethra Davis and the Underwear Kings
-Sunset Over Brooklyn (And The Cone-Shaped Skin Of My Penis)




Tennis Hardapple in front. Pip Snuggler in rear.

Porknugget Wobnobbler Bubble-Tony

"My mum used to rub me noggins into her bibbles and put her wiggletuff into me junkins."

-Bubble Tony

THE PEOPLE'S CASUAL "FUN-TYME" ORAL HISTORY OF BUBBLE TONY:

When he was inflected pubic minister of tremendous growth back in 1983 Jr. College, Bubble Tony (who was known simply as "Tony") was everyone's favorite "get down" guy. As a matter of fact, he was voted #1 Hot Dog Cafeteria by Hot Dog Magazine 1984. Even french girls liked to toggle with the very back of his haircut! After all, he used only the best haircare products known to man: Fresh Tubbins, Pup Town Washer, Scrubble Dubble Duffs, McGregor's, Pump Jiggin's Clean Scrub, and most of all JB's Headtop Buttfucker.

In 1985, he was diagnosed with a turrible case of "St. John's Ugly Syndrome" when he became very, very ugly. But since Bubble Tony used to be really good looking (and a worldwide pussy muncher) he persevered through the bullshit--even after a large coffee mug sized "Bundt" grew out of his left cheek.

Despite his physical handicap, Bubble Tony was elected Ligget St. Clair of the Crumbs of Olde in 1987. This position required him to sweep crumpet particles out of the mustaches and goatees of dignitaries and esteemed members of Parliament. In between hearings, Bubble Tony would come in with his Junior Sweeper Set and a pair of binoculars. He would use the binoculars to find people who were eating crumblers and round-tops. Once he found them, he waited until they were done eating and he'd come in and clean up their runoff.