In the face of this fecal safari, I open myself to the downy compunction of cheese. I will only eat goat cheese, because goats have the stairmaster jukebox liposuction attatchments that ease my astro-turf. Now, perhaps you are thinking, "Blistex!" But I must warn you against such flatulent cocktails, especially the one's with slow-roasted jimmy-hat polo. It's like the time Horacio and I got wasted and woke up on the express bus to Copenhagen, . . . ok, I stole that. Well, at least my sink has a pelvis! There's no need for accusations! How dare you downsize my rectum with hats? Forget it, I'm taking the camel back to St. Jude. Just clean up before you leave. I'm not calling-in more rhinestone mexicans.