Ho ho howdy folkses! Welcome to the Fourth Day of The Twelve Days of Shitmas celebration for 2021! Last time we brought you a delightful tale of tender-hearted pirates giving some orphans the best Christmas of their young but challenging lives. This time we delve into the feather-fluffy world of old-school British variety programming with a special that features what is perhaps the most drastically polarizing of all performance arts. Will it be famine or feast? Fart or fantasy? Fertilizer or foie gras? We'll give you three guesses, but we suspect you'll only need one. This ain't no Masterpiece Theater. It's Million Monkey Theater, bitches.

We know our Shitmas from Shine-ola.

We're posting a brand-new review of a Christmas special every other day beginning December 3rd, culminating in what we consider the worst of the bunch on Christmas morning, and if you've been following along this year, you doubtless already know about our new Secret Santa sneaky link feature. It's not the kind of sneaky link where you tell your live-in bae you're going for a jog then head straight over to your ex-boyfriend's apartment, only to show up at home an hour later with your wet hair smelling of Old Spice shampoo instead of sweat. It's a sneaky link, hidden in one of the screenshots, to a disconcerting depiction of Santa Claus we may or may not have found buried in an old tin box up on Taylor Mountain in Washington State, about 25 miles from where Ted Bundy used to live. We're not saying there's a connection, but it does seem a mighty peculiar coincidence, does it not?

Ventriloquist dummies. Sometimes you love 'em, sometimes you hate 'em, but you do tend to have an opinion and it's usually as strong as the dense hardwood in the creepy little fuckers' heads. Ventriloquism itself is an esoteric skill I can't help but admire, but the characters and acts created by various practitioners are a wildly mixed bag. Old-school wooden puppets, by and large, have the same effect on me as hyper-realistic porcelain baby dolls, in that they spark an immediate urge to burn and destroy, if only to save humanity from these sinister objects so clearly possessed by some sort of demonic hell-spawn, but occasionally I come across a puppet or an act I like or even love.

Snarky double acts like Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy were part of my childhood, and I can still recall how shocking and delightful it seemed to me that what was essentially a talking toy could be such a mischievous, acerbic little sass-hole. Less suited to my personal sensibilities were acts such as Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop, the latter of whose mincing, vocal-fry laden schtick has always set my teeth a-grind in wincing, saccharine agony.

Bergen & McCarthy (l), Lewis & Lamb (r).

The eponymous star of today's special, Keith Harris, took the innovative approach of creating one of each of these character types and then playing them against one another. It sounds like a winning formula, except that his "cute" puppet, Orville Duck, is such an intolerable, soul-sucking, whiny-ass baby bastard that the snide, irreverent Cuddles the Monkey could never be funny or impertinent enough to strike an entertaining balance between them. Sprinkle in a dumb-as-dirt dinosaur named Dippy, some lame, forgettable seasonal songs, a couple of mid-eighties celebrity guest stars no one today can be arsed to remember and a Santa sack full of hokey holiday humor and you've got a recipe for a toxic Shitmas fruitcake you'll want to put straight into the hazmat bin as soon as the guests have all gone home.

It's the light entertainment equivalent of an EPA Superfund Site.

Keith Harris came from a performance family, with a dancer/singer mother and a comedian father. He took up ventriloquy at the age of eleven and quickly began designing his own characters. The blunt-speaking Cuddles is often thought of as secondary to the insufferable Orville, but in actuality he was created a full decade before and was the feature character in Harris' first solo foray into television Cuddles & Co. (1973). Many and varied television appearances followed, but it was the creation of Orville Duck in 1977 and The Keith Harris Show (1982-86) that cemented his place as one of Britain's most popular children's performers.

When the comedy/variety format fell out of public favor in the late 1980's his career took a downturn, and although he continued to work steadily until his death in 2015, he never again reached the level of fame and public goodwill of his mid-80's peak. Keith and Orville recorded a few irritatingly twee Christmas songs and appeared in a variety of syrupy-sweet Christmas specials over the years, but it's the treacle-fueled dumpster fire of The Keith Harris Christmas Party that best captures the cloying, sticky, unendurably maudlin spirit of their act.

I suppose I've diverted, dissembled and delayed the inevitable long enough. We'd better get to it. I suggest you fix yourself a stiff eggnog, hot toddy or perhaps a potent punch, because it may be pretty tough to get through this one sober. I no longer drink, myself, but then I've always been in this game for the pain.

I've been watching television programs from the UK practically since I was weaned, having discovered Doctor Who, Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show and countless others before I was six years old. When you've seen enough of it you notice there's a very specific, very smarmy way British TV presenters of the 70's and 80's spoke when they greeted an audience. This special was broadcast on December 26th, 1983, so before we get into the meat of it, we get a pre-recorded intro from Keith himself saying 'I hope you're all having a super time, I really do, and what about Christmas Day, you have a nice Christmas Day?" in a way that makes you feel just a little bit soiled and greasy by association. Comedians Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer used to absolutely nail the peculiar cadence of this cringy mock-sincerity. It's something you don't hear much anymore, probably because modern audiences don't like to be pandered to in such an outrageously disingenuous fashion.

At any rate Keith assures us that he had a nice Christmas, himself. He "went 'round to Orvilles house," he says, and instead of telling us what exactly went down on that fateful holiday he's going to show us.

If this man says he wants to show you something you should run.

So we flash back to the early evening of Christmas Day, outside of a big, snowy house in the country. Keith is trudging up to the place through the unshoveled snow, laden with bags of gifts. He can see the warm, homey lights in the windows and hear the sounds of happy chatter as if a party is going on, which is odd as we will soon see that Orville, Cuddles and Dippy are the only ones currently inside.

Keith decides to play a little joke, pretending he's a caroler. He sets down the bags and begins singing "Good King Wenceslas." Before he can get though the first verse the house goes silent, and each of the lights goes out one by one. He shouts "Hey! It's me, Keith and I've got the presents," and at the sound of that magic word the lights come back on and we hear Orville call from inside "Well, why didn't you say so?"

His voice is like a cross between a parrot and Salacious Crumb from Return of the Jedi, by the way, and it gets mighty irritating mighty fast.

Cuddles comes loping out of the house to grab the bags and Keith steps inside, closing the door behind him, leaving the poor, set-upon monkey to have a bucket of fake snow dumped on his head by some underpaid stage-hand up in the studio fly gallery. Cuddles spits the soap shavings out of his mouth, raises an angry fist and utters his hi-lar-ious, patented catch phrase:

"I 'ate that duck!"

Now we get the opening credits and a song called "Come to My Party," which probably wouldn't be as completely awful as it is if only it weren't Orville singing it. It's pretty basic Christmas stuff, all about trimming the tree and putting up decorations, and inviting your friends over and kissing under the mistletoe, which if you're Cuddles you have to do with a mirror because, according to Orville, "Ooh! 'E does smell!"

The song includes a soft-shoe dance routine from Dippy, Cuddles doing a one-monkey kick-line and Keith swaying back and forth with his hand stuffed all the way up Orville's bung hole and into the upper reaches of his colon.

I'm not sure Orville has reached age of consent for that sort of thing.

There's also a couple more bits where Cuddles gets the shit-end of the schtick, including taking a snowball to the side of his head and having a Christmas cracker blow up in his face. Maybe he's a raging dick and totally deserves it, but it does seem a bit harsh to me, especially since we're less than five minutes into this thing and he's the only character we've met so far I don't already hate.

Once the song ends and the audience has had a chance to politely respond to the "applause" signs hung strategically throughout the studio to remind them they are being entertained, we hear the doorbell ring, and Orville proudly announces that it must be one of his guests.

Keith opens the door to admit Shakin' Stevens, a Welsh singer-songwriter I'd never heard of before who scored an astonishing thirty-three top 40 hits, including four number one singles, in the UK during the 1980's. In fact, he sold more records and accrued more weeks in the singles charts globally than any other artist of that decade, including some modest commercial penetration in the US. He looks and sounds a lot like Elvis Presley, but with a seizure disorder and a pinched testicle.

You don't dance like that in properly-fitting jeans.

Orville welcomes Shakin' and asks if he'll be singing later, to which he responds of course he'll be singing later, you dumb cluck. It's a clucking variety show, and he's got records to shill. Speaking of which I listened to a few of those records, and I've got to admit he's very good at what he does, even if he leans far too much on the twitchy ghost of early Elvis to do it.

As Dippy shows Shakin' to his room there's a commotion in the chimney and our second special guest drops into the fireplace covered in soot. It's none other than Stu Francis!


Stu Francis is a camp comedian who achieved some notoriety as the presenter of the final four series of a children's TV program called Crackerjack, which originally ran from 1955 until 1984. When I say he's camp I don't mean he roasts marshmallows over an open fire. I mean he taught a generation of 80's youngsters that it's ok to be as gay as you like as often as you want so long as you don't come right out and tell anybody. His catchphrase was "Ooh! I could crush a grape!" which probably describes his unique comedic stylings better than I ever could. Think Mr. Humphries from Are You Being Served but with Moe Howard bangs and dressed like a total berk.

High camp is not a style of comedy that's aged particularly well (excepting Paul Lynde, whose camp is eternal, hallowed be his fey), but it's hard to imagine this particular example having been perceived as good or funny even when this sort of thing was in vogue.

Did I mention the song? I dare you to listen to the whole thing. I double-dog dare you.

I'm leaving out a lot of really bad jokes here because there's just too many of them, but to give you an idea of the caliber of material they're working with there's a gag about Stu having been left on the roof after thumbing a ride with Santa Claus, and one where Cuddles asks Shakin' Stevens to mix the drinks. Because he shakes. Like a cocktail shaker. It's not quite comedy gold, is it? Maybe comedy shale or comedy hematite.

We also get a few variations on Stu's signature gag with such unforgettable japes as "I could wrestle a reindeer" and "I could frighten a fairy," the latter of which is something I would think he's probably actually done.

Stu is in quite a state, what with his sooty cheeks and cheeky quips, so Keith suggests he go to his room and get himself sorted. Once again it's up to Dippy to show the guest where he'll be sleeping, but when Keith tells him to take him to "Uncle Charlie's room," the big yella fella balks, saying he may be stupid but he's not that stupid. Stu is a little spooked now and asks if they didn't talk to this Uncle Charlie about him using his room. Dippy says sure they did...through a medium.

The hits just keep on coming.

Dippy sounds remarkably like Spike Milligan's "Eccles" from The Goon Show (radio, 1951-1960), but without that wonderful character's absurdist brilliance. Dippy is just a dip, not clever-stupid or funny-stupid but just plain stupid-stupid.

Incidentally The Goon Show is the program that launched Peter Sellers' career. It's well-worth seeking out if you enjoy anarchic, subversive and surreal British humor. It was enormously influencial, with artists as varied as The Beatles, The Goodies, The Firesign Theater and Monty Python all citing it as a seminal inspiration.

Since Dippy is too frightened to take Stu to Uncle Charlie's room Orville offers to do so, but since he has no auto-mobility Stu has to hold him, via a hand-to-anus transfer from Keith.

Apparently Orville is self-lubricating.

As Stu and Orville head upstairs Keith asks Dippy where Cuddles has gotten to, and he replies that he thinks he's in the kitchen. Keith goes off to have a look and finds him there, ready to perform a comedic set piece that's the only part of the special I didn't have to will myself not to fast forward through.

They start off by telling a couple of jokes about then-current TV adverts that mean absolutely nothing to anyone in 2021, but then Keith goes on to harangue Cuddles for "always having a go at Orville." Now this piques my interest, because Orville is a grubby, grasping little oik and we should all get to have a go at him.

The Monkey is ruthless in his rancor, which pleases me greatly and much. He suggests they should have Orville stuffed, that they should kill, cook and eat him, so he can mean it honestly when he says "I 'ate that duck." Despite my having been a strict vegetarian for at least the past thirty years I find myself unable to suppress a hearty "Hell, yeah! Get your hand out of his behind, stuff some sage and onions up there and roast the fucker!"

"Well I did just get an air fryer..."

The camera pulls out to reveal a device that looks like a giant bagel cutter with some mocked up Chinese lettering and I immediately wince in anticipation of an inappropriate ethnic gag that thankfully never arrives. I think we dodged a bullet there, as 80's Brit TV was a sinister bastion of "it's just a joke" racism. It turns out the thing is a magic trick called a "Chinese Guillotine" which Cuddles asks Keith to demonstrate by having him stick a cucumber in one of the small holes at the bottom then press down the blade. You can see the blade move across the large hole in the middle then cleanly cut through the cuke. Sly old Cuddles cheekily side-eyes the head-hole in the thing then looks back at Keith and says, "Now this is where Orville comes in!"

It ends up with Cuddles putting his head through the thing to demonstrate it and Keith pushing the blade down. They milk it a bit whether the trick came off properly, but of course it was all in fun! Cuddles would never have intentionally beheaded the star of the show on national television no matter how badly we may have wanted him to.

"If only 't'wer thus."

After a brief transitional appearance by Dippy, who accidentally breaks the kitchen table and knocks all the plates off the shelves, we cut to Keith and Orville sitting in the front room together. Orville whines about not getting a prize, which elicits a pseudo-sympathetic "Awwww" from the assembled onlookers. I'm thinking he must mean he specifically didn't get a prize from a Christmas cracker, because even as he's whining and and complaining about it he's sitting there looking at dozens of prettily-wrapped presents that are all for him.

This is why this character is so annoying to me. I love good, honest self-deprecating humor, when someone isn't afraid to take the piss out of themselves for giggles and shits. It's a great way to break the ice and make people feel comfortable because it shows you can laugh at yourself and are willing to let everyone around you in on the joke. What Orville does is just pandering, attention-seeking bullshit, baiting the audience, fishing for compliments, throwing self-critical or self-pitying statements out into the ether so that people will sympathetically contradict him and feed his ego. That's why I hated that pussy-ass puppet Lamb Chop (the pestiferous sheep-bitch pulled this shit constantly), and that's why I 'ate that duck.

If only someone had thought to make an omelet...

So Keith, not wanting to further upset His Lordship, opens up one of Orville's presents for him, because he's got no arms of his own and his wings are useless. It's a lovely toy airplane, but oh, deary me! It's been broken during shipping! Can Keith mend it? No, he can't, because he's an entertainer, not a handyman, and he has no practical life skills whatsoever.

Predictably, Orville begins to whine, but Keith quickly redirects him with some probing questions and cheeky jokes. After some light-hearted, humor-free volleys back and forth we learn that Orville bought Cuddles a Mickey Mouse watch for Christmas. He wanted to buy him a watch with a duck on it but couldn't find one, a tramatizing memory that sends him nuzzwing his wittle face into Keith's neck, cwying that people wike mice...but they don't wike ducks.

There, there, Orville. People do like ducks.
They just don't like you.

Keith tries to comfort Orville by telling him that some people don't like mice and are even afraid of them. Orville, the manipulative little shit, reminds Keith that he himself had told him some time back that he should a get mouse to keep him company. It turns out Orville went down to the pet shop and came back with Dippy instead, because he's a kind of mouse, you see. He's "enor-mouse."

But wait! It gets worse! Orville admits that Dippy loves him, but then whines that no one else does, he laments, "because I'm ugly." Naturally we get another big patronizing "Awwww..." from the audience, and another round of Keith biting down hard on the hook and allowing himself to be reeled deeper and deeper into Orville's bottomless cess-pit of narcissistic need. Don't fall for it, Keith! Tell him you agree one hundred percent, that he is, indeed, one ugly motherfucker, the ugliest duckling you've ever seen, and it makes you sick to look at him. Just like watching maggots eat roadkill.

I kept hoping Keith would get wise to Orville's game, but he just kept going deeper down the ego-hole. By the time Orville starts disingenuously ragging on himself about being green, and Keith starts mooning over him and how lovely a color it is, just like a beautiful Christmas tree, and how he is beautiful, too, what little respect I might have had for the guy has gone completely down the shitter.

You're dead to me now, Keith Harris.
In addition to being actually dead.

Speaking of the Christmas tree, there's a lovely and not at all creepy angel on top of it, and Keith tells Orville that if he's been very good and thinks very hard all his Christmas wishes will come true. Orville wishes that she would fix his broken airplane, and before you can say "turducken" she lowers her wand and shoots a beam of light down, which not only mends it but encrusts it with some groovy silver glitter, too!

That shit gets everywhere and it never goes away. It's the herpes of crafting supplies.

Alright, people. This shit is brutal. I need an intermission. Since I don't have booze to fall back on I'm just gonna take a little break, have a cup of tea, listen to some Yanni, do some deep breathing exercizes and and chillax.

I'll be back in two and two, as Chuck Woolery used to say.

"Let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby..."

Unfortunately, while I was enjoying my tea and Yanni, YouTube blocked The Keith Harris Christmas Party in my country on copyright grounds (not a joke), leaving me unable to continue watching and pretty much stuck up Orville's ass without a paddle. Fortunately, I did watch it all the way through a few weeks ago in preparation for this article, so I'll do my best to reconstruct the rest from memory, sans screenshots and using what paltry visual aids I can cobble together from disparate sources. If I'm honest, I'd just as soon start over with something else, but I'm on a strict deadline here with eight more articles left to write. Time is not on my side.

I buy YouTube premium and this is how you repay me?

After leaving Orville to play with his glitter plane, Keith heads upstairs to check on Stu. You remember Stu? The guy with the grape-crushing fetish? Well, Keith knocks on the door to Uncle Charlie's room and Stu tells him to come on in, he's just getting ready for the party, meaning he's only half-way dressed, in a striped shirt, red bowtie, and boxer shorts with mismatched socks. I really wish I could have shown you that.

The room is all dusty and dark, with a big, dirty, taxidermy boar's head on one wall, cobwebs everywhere and even a set of dentures in a cup of grimy water on a side table. Its just as Uncle Charley left it when he shuffled off this mortal coil, probaby to avoid having to appear in this special.

Frankly I'd be offended if I were a guest in someone's home and got assigned to such a shit-hole, but Stu doesn't seem to mind. He's an easy-going, undemanding bloke, just looking forward to all those snazzy presents and maybe a few little drinkie-winkies when the party starts later that evening.

The thrust of this scene is that Uncle Charley still haunts the place, and he doesn't like people being in his room without his permission. There's a portrait of him on the wall, holding a ventriloquist dummy of his own that begins to speak, then the dentures begin to speak, then the boar's head begins to speak, and then some other spooky ghost stuff happens that leaves Keith and Stu cuddling in bed together with the latter still half-undressed, and both of them shivering in mortal fear.

Artist's rendering.

And that's pretty much all I remember except for a hairy ape hand came through the wall at one point that swapped out Stu's slacks, so when he distractedly finished dressing he ended up wearing a pink tutu.

He's no stranger to unfortunate wardrobe choices.

Next up is Shakin' Stevens, singing his latest hit "Cry Just a Little Bit," which reached number 3 on the UK charts and number 67 here in the US. Of the dozen or so songs I've listened to from him in recent weeks it's by far the weakest, but he did bring along his saxophone player, which is good to see. It's nice to include your pets in the holiday festivities, don't you think?

I certainly can't say Shakin' Stevens isn't a dynamic performer or that he doesn't live up to his name. He leaps and twitches and shakes his legs like he's got a wasp up his trousers, jumping on chairs, winking and wincing, generally appearing to be in emotional and physical distress and possibly constituting a danger to himself or others. If I saw this behavior in my mental health day job, I'd probably initiate a 302, which for those of you not familiar with the glamorous world of social services is an involuntary commitment to a behavioral health unit for psychiatric evaluation.

Shakin' had a nice long rest, is currently recovering at home and is both therapy- and med-compliant.

I recall some time-filler interstitial gags with Cuddles and Dippy, but the only major set piece left is the sentimental and perfunctory "true meaning of Christmas" scene, which takes place up in Orville's bedroom, where Keith tucks him in and tells him the story of the nativity because he's apparently never heard of Jesus before because he's an ignorant, puke-green pillock.

There's even more self-pity, even more coddling and condescension, and a horrific tone-deaf offence against holiday songcraft called "Thank You for Telling Me about Christmas," during which Orville repeatedly pronounces "Christmas" as "Kissmuss," because despite a successful, decades-long entertainment career Keith Harris was a pretty shitty ventriloquist.

"'Ow long 'ave you been buggerin' me with your fist now, Keith? Must be nigh-on fifty years!"

It all goes kind of fuzzy for me now, and if there was another scene between this one and the grand finale, I have mercifully forgotten it.

Actually, calling it a grand finale is overstating things. It's really just a quick "Happy Christmas, goodbye and goodnight," kind of thing, with Keith & Orville, Cuddles, Dippy, Stu and Shakin' Stevens all back in the front room and Keith coming full circle back to his smarmy presenter routine, insincerely thanking his special guests, the studio audience and all the shell-shocked folks watching at home for participating in his festive and fiery holiday train wreck.

Just as Keith bids his final farewell the doorbell rings again, and when he opens it a parade of presenters from other programs, who happened to have been at work at BBC Television Centre the day they were taping this, file in under strict orders from Auntie Beeb herself to make a token appearance before the cameras and act like they're having a real, proper, good time Christmas party, lest they be banished from her sight and her tax-funded public entertainment cult, forever doomed to beg for day work at ITV.

The End.

Keith Harris once said in an interview many years after his personal heyday, when his career had largely devolved into panto shows and charity performances, "You don't give up showbusiness. It gives you up," which I feel is an insightful statement about how changing tastes and expectations can leave you floundering if you can't adapt to them. He also lamented that "Children don't have anything to laugh at anymore," which I feel is pretty much bullocks. Children have plenty to laugh at and enjoy, more than any kid in the 80's could have imagined before the virtual avalanche of cable stations, streaming services and online content for children we have available today. You just have to give them something they want to see, and warmed over music hall leftovers just don't cut it anymore, especially when they come with self-piteous whining, dope-addict eyes and a diaper full of duck shit.

Shitmas Bonus!
Nappy Time!

We here at Million Monkey Theater strive to provide a reading experience that's both entertaining and educational. In that spirit, and in honor of today's protagonist's penchant for wearing a diaper (or nappy as those crazy Brits say), we thought it might be both elucidating and delectatious to explore the peripatetic bodily excretion habits of different peoples and cultures throughout history. We have therefore compiled below a helpful pamphlet:

The A to Z of Going on the Go

Assyrians: Their city sentinels worked 24-hour shifts with no bathroom breaks, wearing makeshift diapers made of bay leaves so their poop would smell like soup.

Babylonians: They kept hanging gardens under their robes which they'd water and fertilize with each excretion.

Covidians: They shit for two weeks straight during the plague times, and if they survive it they can get a booster shot after six months.

Dudeists: They poo in little bags made from old, worn-out rugs that really used to bring the room together.

Etruscans: Not much is known about their transient poo practices, but some historians believe they strapped conch shells to their asses and just never sat down.

Foodies: They eat everything in sight and shit everywhere. They don't even care.

Germans: Their bowels are so disciplined they can hold them indefinitely, then release on command.

Hessians: What did you think those big gold helmets were for?

Iberians: Their exclusively paleo diets mean they poo constantly, so they've devised an elaborate system of ducts that retract directly into the anus.

Jesus Christ Latter-Day Saints: Not wishing to soil the standard issue tighty-whities they wear with their names printed on the elastic in case they get lost, they pray to the Angel Moroni, who transforms their poo into the Books of Mormon they hand out door to door to unwary homeowners.

Kidz Bop Chorus: They soil their pants, ignore it and keep singing.

Lilliputians: Their poos are so tiny no one even notices them.

Mad Men: They save their shits, stick 'em in fancy boxes and market them with pithy catch phrases.

Neapolitans: They shit in three flavors, formed into perfect bricks.

Olympian Gods: They shit ambrosia directly into their togas, shouting "Release the Kraken!" with the emergence of each new turd.

Polynesians: They're usually floating around in the ocean someplace so they just let 'em go whenever they like.

Q: This mysterious race of immortals use their awesome mind powers to bend their waste into alternate realities.

Recuay: This ancient, pre-Columbian culture is known for its tricolor pottery, much of which was used as port-a-pottery.

Stillbay Industry Cro-Magnons: Known for their ultra-sharp stone knives first discovered in the Cape Province area of South Africa, they thrived between 30,000 and 50,000 years ago. They used these blades to dice their poo into a sort of hash for reasons archaologists do not fully understand.

Timor-Lestians: With their country only having gained full sovereignty in 2002 they really haven't had much time to get their shit together.

Urukites: Not much is known about the bathroom habits of the inhabitants of the ancient city-state of Uruk and their mighty king Gilgamesh, but I'm sure their shits were epic.

Venusians: With twelve arms, six legs and an astonishing seventeen asses, the inhabitants of Venus produce a substantial amount of waste. Thankfully the planet's surface temperature is around 900 degrees so that shit just burns right off as soon as they excrete it.

Waltons: One of John Boy's chores was to collect dung from the outhouse to spread on the crops.

X-men: They deal with their shit in different ways, according to their individual powers. Magneto has a lot of iron in his diet, so he uses his magnetism to repel it, Angel Salvador flaps his wings to gently waft the stench towards his enemies, and Wolverine just glares at it until it runs away on its own.

Yemenites: No one shits in Yemen. It's just too dangerous.

Zippity-Doo-Dites: Not much is known about these happy, gentle travellers, but every time they do a shit it's surely going to be a wonderful day.

Now you know your ABC's,
come and have a shit with me.

Merry Christmas, folkses.

Next Installment: December 11th!

As always, Cheers and thanks for reading!

Written by Bradley Lyndon in December, 2021.

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