Crotch Interviews

Cat's Crotch has always been receptive when offered a chance speak with important figures in politics and economics, and this month we're honored to have a visit paid to us by Ben Bernanke, the current Chairman of The Federal Reserve. BB wanted to explain to us in layman's term why printing more money will fill our pantries and keep our hot bars satisfied.

CC: "Good morning Ben! You look healthy."

BB: "Thank you. I feel good!"

CC: "I love your skin."

BB: "Let's get down to brass tax. This month started off fairly rough with the Debt Roof barely getting raised in time before America became officially slightly unreliable when it comes to paying back loans. You really have to understand why it's important to have a perfect credit score."

CC: "We think about that all the time!"

BB: "I know, it's pretty intense. Anyway, when you print more money, that means everyone will get more, and we need more because we were almost out."

CC: "Well that makes sense... that doesn't mean its value will decrease, will it? Or that stuff will get more stupid?"

BB: "No, of course not, god."

CC: "What about it eventually cycling to other countries and not coming back? I think that is a possibility."

BB: "That's completely impossible because it's American dollars. They only work in America, c'mon."

CC: "... what's that black stuff coming out of your eyes?"

BB: "What...? That's nothing, nothing is coming out of my eyes."

CC: "It looks like Satan's semen."

That this point Ben pushes his index finger into his eye socket and then draws something on the desk in front of him with the questionable black material, then vanishes. The symbol that was traced into the wood also vanished.

U.S. Army Presents: "Would-Stock" 1969

In response to the well-known counter culture festival of the same year, the U.S. Army felt it necessary to host a competing festival for "buttoned-up military types" as opposed to "loose haired faggots."

Upon hearing the news about Woodstock, General B.R. Slate Blambrock of The Catskills Military Training Grass Field said "we'll let those robe-wearing chicken-hawks have their dandy-doodle, but me and my boys will put on a little show of our own."

General Blambrock sent word out to personnel at all the surrounding military bases: "You close-cut boys don't have to feel short-changed by not being allowed to go to Woodstock with the hippy-dippies and their boring drugs and loud music. We're going to put on a little show of our own called 'Would-Stock.' As in, why WOULD you want to go to Woodstock?"

As it turns out, General Blambrock was unable to book any musical acts (aside from a few elderly Christian singers from the local gospel-hut to do a song-and-dance promenade) so he enlisted a few of the most elite Jet Fighters from the local air base to drive around in the fields with their afterburners on full blast for a "straight shot of sweltering American heat and joy."

On the day of the festival, many military families gathered in a green field under the sun to enjoy the day's activities. Many prepared mayonnaise-based meals while others picked single blades of grass and threw them back down again. Some young men even slapped a "high-five" to one another (assuming the high-ranking officers weren't looking).

But when the Jet Fighters arrived, the fun TRULY began. The jets started off on a slow but gradual taxi around the green field, but after a few minutes of slow play, the pilots fired the afterburners and drove their airships straight into the crowd... giving men, women and children something great to look at.

A few military military participants look back on memories of the festival with fondness:

"I thought it was a jim-dandy time. My father and I were some of the lucky few to have jets drive over our family picnic and squash our 'taters. It was truly hilarious!" -Private Grumder Feath

"My young daughter and I were there when the pilot's landing gear failed and the nose dropped into the crowd. It fell right on someone's bottle of mustard and squirted it all over their face." -Popcorn Lieutenant Pumper Clapflash

"My good friend Jacob stuck his hot dog into the jet's afterburner flame and cooked it. I remember him telling me how it was the best hot dog he'd ever tasted. He died of cancer a couple years later. But... back to Would-Stock! It was a great time. I wish I could go back and do it again!" -Colonel Ennerd Foghorn

Unbelieveable Glory

Worldwide eyeball phenomenon and leading American browhair-length extraordinaire Malniferous Pondercut has given birth asexually to twin albecorian slickhaired screamers. Communicating using a series of alphabetical scorecards, Malniferous named his/her two youngest offspring Flame Junction and Steel Blade. As of Tuesday night, they will be officially ordained as part of the "Twin Sons" bicentennial Browhair Legacy Foundation's "Royal Review."

As many people already know, Malniferous is the son/daughter of Legendary look-absorber Pontificus BloodRevenge, the individual with the longest and most perfect recorded eyebrows and mustache known to civilization. But with that prestigious of a lineage comes considerable pressure. In his/her younger days, Malniferous was known to stay out late with "questionable breeds," often "rubbing leathers" with a ruffian miscreant or two along the way. As it was often reported in "Dog Feathers Worldwide Tribute" in the late nineteen seventies, Malniferous also occasionally partook in dog's marijuana (a cheaper, less-reliable form of the drug, boiled and distilled down to a level where dogs can begin to understand it's effects on the mind).

It was never quite understood what exactly pulled Malniferous out of the drug and sex filled stupor that ruled his/her younger days, but according to leading experts at the Brow Length program at Tableaux Royal University, he/she experienced enlightenment when his/her eyebrows and mustache reached an adequate length. Adequate enough to set his/her restless mind at peace and leave him/her with an everlasting feeling of spiritual tranquility that no man, beast or fiery war will never interrupt.

Now, with the birth of his/her two sons, Malniferous will be making a sizable donation to the "Brow Enhancement Research Fund for Fortunate Youths" to bequeath some of the hair-praise he/she received in his/her younger days to a new spawn of slickhairs. It will be with great pleasure that, upon the moment of his/her death, Malniferous is to have his/her browhair and mustache surgically removed and installed on the back of a sports car traveling the desert at extraordinarily high speeds. Malniferous explained in a recent interview with "Hair Hound Daily" that he/she wishes to re-live those dangerous and untamed days of his/her youth, but now, with the children, that is impossible. He/She (or part of him/her) will be a feather on the breeze in the next life, but not in this one.

It was reported that Sportscar Pedal Accelerator Operator Jergens Fourthwright III of Southwestern England has agreed to be the man to install Malniferous' hair upon the spoiler of his Ephigram Royal 5X B3. In a joint statement with his sponsors, Blumghust Motors and Edith Graham Dog Food, Jergens said "I feel a debt of gratitude to Malniferous and [it's] wonderful hair... produced as a result of a lineage that will be remembered forevermore."

1983 Consumer Reports: "Van 'Halin," A Disturbing New Trend With Soft-Faced Schoolboys

Above is an experienced artist's interpenetration of "Van 'Halin:" a terrible new trend that has been reported by PTA parents in the Troutflesh school district this year.

The rumor was started by Blather Turnjaw, a mother of three school-aged boys who INSISTS she thinks she might have seen "a couple of ruff-tuffs getting 'comfortable' with the hard-iron muffler of her sports utility vehicle." Blather explains...

"I didn't exactly witness the event firsthand. But a couple of the other neighborhood wives thought they heard or saw some kids talking about a new sexualart/fantasyact called Van 'Halin. I have no hard data or facts, only an experienced mother's hard-minded opinion. And I think what we're dealing with is some real sour-faced melonwater. I'm talking a pickle-rind on the beef-end of the barbeque. A spacemaker for the darkmind. Something you don't want your kids overhearing, that's for sure." Blather goes on to explain... "From what I can gather from my motherly intuition, gained from letting my husband ram his fluids into me and bearing his children, I believe these young teds are wrapping their tender little lips around the spout-hole of the mufflers while the cars are running. Just to get the flavor of the blacksmoke on the front of their teeth. Then they go around bragging about how many makes and models of cars they've 'jammed.' I'm not going to claim to be an expert on any of this, but some of the other mothers in the Troutflesh PTA agree that I'm really onto something here. With a name like Van 'Halen, what else could it mean?"


In order to get down to the dark and truthful facts, we stuck our head deep into the nectar of the scientific community to search for someone who might have answers. Doctor Jazz Moundgrinder, a medical professional in the field of smoke inhalation, had this to say: "I've heard of a muffler with a man on the end of it. Breathing in and out. You know what I mean? It's a grim shudder of a thought and I hate to think about it. But huffing hot-gas fumes is a real party if you want to get baked like a clam and have a shout with your friends, but I wouldn't recommend it. Sure I did it a bit in college when naked girls were cheering me on. I drank fresh smoke right out of the steel rod poking out of the back of my friend's van. That was while we were protesting Vietnam. It was a different time back then. With the war going on, we found ourselves in a new emotional paradigm, trying things we normally wouldn't try, resisting authority to such a degree that we sometimes dismissed social mores altogether. It was a feeling of spiritual freedom that most people don't really know. God those were some sweet times. OH! I'm sorry, I got a bit off topic. Yes, yes. I think these acts with the children and the fume pipes are a terrible disgrace to upstanding Americans like ourselves. Certainly very, very bad, yes."

After a few months of hard research and extensive local press coverage, we were contacted by the agent of rock singer David Lee Roth, who insisted that we cease and desist any slanderous jaw-turning about his band.

Once again, we spoke to Blather Turnjaw, who claims Van Halen's songs SPECIFICALLY ENORSE huffing fumes. She insists that the band formed as a direct result of finding out about smoke inhalation, and wanting to spread the message to the youth. She hypothesizes that "every song is a direct metaphor to smoke inhalation. Just because I've never actually SEEN young boys coddling automobile smokepipes doesn't mean it's not happening. Take 'Hot For Teacher' for example. 'Teacher' is clearly a metaphor for a metal rod. And being 'Hot' for 'Teacher' simply implies a strong desire to wrap one's lips around the muffler of a running car, just for the thrill. And the song 'Running With The Devil' is much the same. I'm fairly sure I heard a story once about a young man running alongside a school bus with his lips curled around the edges of the steampipe, huffing every last ounce of hotsmoke that came guzzling out. And I think that's precisely what David Lee Roth is singing about. The band is truly distasteful and I can't believe they can be so insensitive as to write songs about such a harmful topic."





Having heard the slanderous remarks made by Blather Turnjaw of the Troutfish PTA Squadron, David Lee Roth fired back with his own viewpoint: "I am truly hurt and bargled by the remarks. Made. Why say this? I am a longhaired jackrabbit with no time to mess with flaffs like this! Why me? I'm just an old jackrabbit. Hah Hah! Yeah I huffed a muff! What do you want??? LOL (David Lee Roth also coined the term "LOL" which means "Laughing Out Loud," a truly hilarious and groundbreaking man, wouldn't you agree?)!"

Getting Things Done Around The House: Perhaps Tomorrow

Longtime roommates Dayve and "Rag Bones" decided to finally get some work done around the house. According to Rag Bones, "the laundry hadn't been done for a few years. My bro Dayve and I just don't dig knobs and buttons [Refrencing the ones on the laundry machine]. They're so corporate and... like... you feel me? I mean, we really just wear bagged-out hoods and sweet sag-pants so we don't really usually see the point of washing these old bong stains off [laughs], I mean you know? Chicks still come over. We still got pussy crusin' our way."

After a short look around their living quarters, it was clear that marijuana consumption had been a key priority for the last few decades, weighing far heavier on the scale of importance than things like removing fast food wrappers from inside the shower and removing resin stains from the carpet.

"Yeah bro, Rag Bones and I just live a renegade lifestyle, you know?" Dayve says in between pulls from his oral fog steamer. "After high school things just chilled out, you know? It was only like twelve years ago, not too long ago. No big deal, you know? It's just like... we're just keeping it real and keeping the dream alive."

"Yeah, I got a sweet job over at Best Buy as a compact disc sales representative Team Leader," Dayve explains. "A lot of my friends are jealous at how successful I am. You know? I got a lot of money. That's how Rag Bones and I can afford this sweet one bedroom in the heart of suburbia, right bro? [laughs and hi-fives Rag Bones]"

Rag Bones seemed a bit uncomfortable when asked about his lifestyle and career, but as he spoke, he seemed to muster some level of feigned confidence. "Yeah bro. My mom and dad were both in real estate, so they hook me up with some sweet stuff like canned food and some money to help Dayve out with bills. Like Dayve said earler, you know... we were kind of the renegades in high school, and we're still living the legend, you know? I don't really work, you know? I mostly work on my rad drawings on my desktop PC that my parents got me my senior year. [Rag Bones hands me his most recent work]:



Dayve chimes in and mentions that "this is the earliest that Rag Bones and I have been up in years." I looked up and the clocked read 2:30pm. "Yeah, we're usually kinda afternoon style dudes, ya know? The morning is for like college professors and politicians. See, we're just a couple of young dudes keeping it real, feel me?"

I asked Rag Bones what his plans for the future were as he sipped his morning beer and took a puff of a hot silverfish. "Yeah... I think I'm going to try to get some of my art onto a cool blog or a website. I got pretty good at making sweet 4:20 art. I think I'm gonna try to sell my whole collection for a couple million to an art gallery in a couple years."

I asked Dayve what his ten year plan looked like. He explained that he saw himself as moving up the ranks and Best Buy, hopefully to become the "King Sales Chief" of the compact disc sales area.

Burger Monthly: The Thrill Is Gone

As I stabbed the flappy cheeseburger directly into my facial port, my sense of "being" and "togetherness" began to slowly fade away. I no longer derived any joy or pleasure from the oral jam, only a sense of detachment as the bun contorted and tore around the borders of my food sewer.

With my eyes half closed, I pictured my dismal, flickering existence and how I'm known around town as "Burger Terry." The name was given to me because I, along with everyone else in my family, bulldoze multiple burgers per day. Being a burger dumpster used to bring me an exotic sensation and a trembling joy deep in my groin, but now I feel only emptiness. And it's all because I killed my aunt by eating her burger that would've saved her life.

My aunt, Clort Floop, was in the emergency ward of the local hospital, suffering from "Burger's St. Wort," a terrible beef affliction. Like me, she only ate burgers, so the doctor had to deliver her every treatment through the medium of fresh, wet hamburgers. The doctor needed to give her spinal fluid so he injected it into a double cheeseburger "Fresh X-Treme" from Groper's BUR-GUR Kingdom and passed it to her to ingest. But before she could eat it, I snatched it out her moistened fingertips and drove it down my funnel with two fingers. Aunt Clort screamed in wretched agony and died instantly.

It took me only seconds to realize what I'd done. My desire for sweet, oily brownmeat had driven me to commit a terrible act. But the worst thing was, it hadn't been the first time. I wish to repent for these crimes so I can once again go back to the sensual burger life I once enjoyed.

LIST OF HEINOUS BURGER CRIMES (Chronological Order):

December 25th, 1976: My first burger crime was committed at a family Christmas gathering where I stole a baby bottle full of burger milk from my young cousin.

March 31st, 1994: I went and saw Jurassic Park in the movie theaters and when my mom wasn't looking, I shoved my burger down the front of my Lee Denim jeans and rubbed it on my fur pile.

May 24th, 2005: I grabbed a fresh "Cheese Max" Supreme triple stack from a young boy on his bicycle and rammed it down my funnel before he could take it back. Then I kicked him into the road and stepped on his leg to prevent him from calling the police.

August 6th, 2009: During a full moon, I ripped open a fast food dumpster and found two homeless people making love. I pried them apart long enough to grab a moist handful of expired green burger meat to pound down my digestive tube.

I am sorry.

My Visit With Jesus In Heaven

Major news anchors and producers have been humping their desks and caressing their meaty testicles in anticipation for a story like this to drop in their warm, slighty moistened laps. And now that it's here, it's shocked the free world--most notably the scientific community--to it's very foundation.

It's been reported today that a young boy by the name of Jib Tupp has traveled to what christians refer to as "the misty lair" or "Jesus' mountiantop." In other words, the highest level of heaven. But the most amazing part is--Jib's has returned to tell the tale!

Jib's father, a member of "'R Grayce 'N Chryst" Church and avid science disbeliever, paraphrased his son's experience for us. "My son Jib fell off his high chair after a family prayer and conked his noggin on a crate full of bibles. My wife and I don't believe in science so we didn't take him to the hospital. We got some mason jars and started to catch the blood that was coming out of his head and bottle it up so we could put it back in his body later. After a couple of hours of being passed out in the Lord's Netherworld and bleeding from a broken skull, Jib woke up but he didn't say nothing. He just looked at us, smiling like he'd just seen the Holy Light. Then I asked him if he'd had a Christian experience in the "Tunnels of Ecstasy" and he shook his head yes. Than I asked him if he met the Lord and walked with him in the Vally of Good Times he shook his head yes."

When social workers got word of the boy being denied medical treatment by reason of religious dogma, they were required to make a house call to examine the boy's condition--as stated in Futter County Law. Medical examiner Plute Guffer noted the boy's unsavory condition. "After being unconscious for two hours, the brain becomes completely devoid of oxygen--leaving the victim in a state of complete and utter ragdoll-hood."

Despite the medical expert's analysis, Jib's father insists that Jib chooses not to speak as a result of getting "his getting touched on the nose by the finger of the lord." Jib's father rationalizes that after going through such a "dazzler of a Holy Touchdown" one thinks banal acts such as oral communication to be of little importance.

Reporting from Futter County, Aarkhinsaw. Cat's Crotch News Team.

Hacker Profile: Shadowlord 5000

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In a deliberate act of retribution, revered computer hacker "Shadowlord 500" fired a "wizard orb" virus into his ex-girlfriend Pat's Unicorn website, littering the homepage with lude images. The news of the incident has traveled to every corner of the hacker community. While many consider the vengeful act amusing, some consider it to be disgraceful to the hacker code of ethics.

As it turns out, Shadowlord's motives for revenge are fueled by anger and jealousy. To shed more light on the topic, we spoke to a source close with Shadowlord 5000, who explained to us that "Shadowlord is a Level 6 Giga-Prophet but an emotionally sensitive keyboard warrior, who's only Achilles heel was losing his true love to the fleshy embrace of another." We can only glean from that statement that Shadowlord is upset because his girlfriend cheated on him.

We were lucky enough to secure an interview with Shadowlord's ex-girlfriend Pat on her way to work at Tubby's Burger Shed. She explained to us that she was never untrue to Shadowlord, who she addressed as Derek. She said she went out to get a cup of ice cream at Blork's Cold Den with her study partner, Bod Funkus. But when Shadowlord rode by on his mountain bike, presumably after following her to the store to spy on her, he become emotionally crushed when he saw the two together. Shadowlord lost his bearings in the heat of the moment and crashed his bike into the curb right in front of the ice cream store window and tore the front of his jeans open. She explains the incident as extremely embarrassing for her, Bod and especially Shadowlord. She said after Shadowlord crashed, he picked himself up off the ground exposing a massive riff in the fabric of his "Old Tenor" denim jeans. Through the riff, everyone at the ice cream store had a full frontal view of his exposed privates, which were horribly scratched from the collision with the concrete. Everyone at the store broke into wild and furious laughter leading Shadowlord to hop back on his bent and broken bicycle and make the agonizing ten mile journey home in bitter tears of rage and confusion.

She said ever since then Shadowlord has failed to return her phonecalls and refuses to walk down the halls at school. Instead, she says he spends all day in the computer lab doing independent study with a moist towelette wrapped around his dasher. She hopes that they can one day be friends again and she has no hard feelings about the virus he infected her website with. "For the record," she says, "I haven't updated that unicorn website since Jr. High when I made it. All I care about now is spending time with my new boyfriend, Bod Funkus, the sweatiest most bulging man on the legball hustlers."

Science Crotch

A scientific emergency has gripped our nation in a blinding fervor this month, as American specialists have confirmed that there is a massive shortage of laser technology in several countries with the minimal requirement of MicDunalds food chains. As many subscribers probably don't know, lasers are not only used in skin treatments and listening to music, but they are also used in hair removal procedures, movie viewing, data reading, eye treatment, light measurements and visual entertainment. Some lasers are even applicable on the battlefield of war and fighting.

Without modern laser technology, people in Africa have had to resort to using Ancient Magic Laser Eyes, and while this sounds impressive, these lasers can only be used to send signals to other tribes. Laser color is also incredibly limited (red only, and sometimes orange if it's a shaman). In the meantime, military officials and charity groups have been fixating on providing the locals with trivial things, such as medical aid, food, educational books and protection against terrorists and warmongering dictators. Unfortunately, no matter how much they read, they can't play a CD or get rid of their back hair.

"Our efforts have been diverted and we've been distracted," says Attorney General Rick Godwizard, "we've promised these people democracy and a place at our side as we take that laser bridge into the future, and instead they're eating frozen honey and getting addicted to methadone."

Coverage for this story was brought to you by our sponsor and a special interest group, CLIT (Cultural Laser Initiative Tribune)

Yon-Yon Fantasia: The 6th Dimension

Brave adventurer Yon-Yon Fantasia knows there's more to life than what we see on a day to day basis. That's why she's dedicated her time to uncovering and documenting life's most fascinating mysteries for the betterment of all mankind.

Most Recently, Ms. Fantasia's bold adventures lead her to the syrupy, vile-smelling floor of the restroom in the Burning Cockbird Nightclub. As with most of Ms. Fantasia's scientific expeditions, her journey began with seven shots of straight rum and a few Oxycotin painkillers, to put her mind in a state of supreme inquiry. Before she dedicated herself to the full pursuit of knowledge, she began to rub on the enlarged crotches of antonymous males on the Burning Cockbird dance floor. Security even threatened to forcibly remove her from the establishment when she attempted to remove the jeans from one particular man named Sagebrush Jones. But not before she gave the security guard a piece of her mind. She explained, in no uncertain terms, that her intentions were fueled purely by logic and altruism, to create a brighter future for men, women and children by unlocking the secrets of the universe for the tangible benefit of the "Astro Generation." But the plead landed on deaf ears, as the security guard clearly did not share her concern for such pursuits. But instead of simply surrendering herself to the authority figure, Ms. Fantasia decided to throw her planned expedition into high-gear and make a bee-line for the women's restroom. After entering the female John, Ms. Fantasia, by now totally smashed rotten on rum, began to search for the tile, which she believed to be the key to unlocking the forbidden 6th dimension. Her ever-present intuition lead her to crawl on her hands and knees to the back of a toilet stall, behind the toilet, where she decided to set up basecamp. And there she stayed for the next three hours. But unlike most scientists, Ms. Fantasia prefers to let her unconscious mind do the work, never her waking mind. Without the barrier of consciousness standing in the way of discovery--Ms. Fantasia believes anything is possible.

So in her benumbed slumber, Ms. Fantasia ruminated on her best theories (which came in the form of sexualized dreams). When she awoke, around 2:30am, to the sound of the janitor mopping the next stall over, she was quick to arrive to a conclusion: the 6th dimension must lie not here, but at another night club altogether.

For as everyone knows, finding answers to life's biggest questions is never easy. The search requires years of dedication and many late nights of deep concentration and study.