Warning … warning!  This blog may have laxative effects.

Sometimes an idea, or ideas, for a blog rumble around my cranial nether regions … or maybe the phrase should be “cranium and nether regions” … and then, before I know it, a blog explodes.

Lucky you … read on if you dare …

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Apparently two bat s**t crazy guys living on the Isle of Wight thought it a good idea to establish a gallery displaying the “Art of Animal Feces” in the community zoo.  Possessing completely creative and warped brains, they opened the National Poo Museum featuring poop, feces, excrement, s**t from some 200 animals.

They discovered that some folks disgusted by feces, are very intrigued by “poo.”

Your s**t may stink, but their “poo” is definitely a big hit … at least in their little corner of the world.

The “Museum of Poo” gallery is going on a tour at the end of the summer.  I’m pretty sure they’re not coming to Mount Dora, FL.

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/26/world/what-in-the-world/britain-national-poo-museum-lion-feces.html?mwrsm=Email

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Not to be out done, our very own Central Florida mega-attraction, Disney World, has capitalized on one of their largest natural resources.

That would be “animal s**t.”

And like the “Two Guys from the Isle of Wight,” the Disney Imagineers who researched this idea also suggested “poo” as their operative word.

And guess … I dare you to guess … where this poo venue can be visited?

Ta da!  Animal Kingdom at Zuri’s Sweets Shop.

Yep … moms, dads and especially kids can “enjoy” giraffe, hippo, elephant and cotton-top tamarin poo … a monkey kinda resembling my crazy Uncle Willy who frequented our Thanksgiving table.

Dominated by chocolate, the faux-poo blobs also may contain berries, nuts, oats, caramel, and peanut butter.

Poo servings appear to be a hit.  The kids love ‘em … hey, just another sugar high in the Land of Make Believe … and an opportunity for the adults to act like kids when they blurt out scatological remarks and play with their food.

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In some instances, food s**t journeys end up, hmm … as a pile of s**t.

Los Angeles was gaga over the opening of their first bathroom restaurant, Magic Restroom Café.

Highly popular in Taiwan and China, the idea of sitting on a toilet (lid down) and eating food inspired by names of smelly human waste products just didn’t catch on in LA.

After a short eight month stint of the “runs,” the folks of LA decided that everyone’s s**t stinks.

Just sayin’ …

http://www.eater.com/2014/5/29/6215951/dreams-flushed-las-bathroom-themed-cafe-shutters

The GOP Convention’s over.  I’ve learned that we’re on the verge of a total apocalyptical collapse and only Don the Con can save us.

Thank the gods we have The Con.  I sure hope he can solve another major problem facing millions of us.

In one smooth innovative patent swoop, Sealed Air Corporation of Charlotte, NC saved oodles of dollars … but pissed-off oodles of citizens.

I’m sure you’re asking, “Richard WTF did these Bozos do?  What do they make?”

Well, click here to find out …

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Have you recently received a package in the mail?  Did you notice anything different?  Shippers no longer use Bubble Wrap!

Bubble Wrap, that pop-pop-pop wrap s**t used to protect our millions of online purchases, is no more.  Kaput!  Extinct!  Popped out!  Gonezo!

Yep … gone is the free toy for millions of toddlers … and adults.  No more squabbling over whose turn it is to pop the wrap because you can’t pop the replacement …  iBubble Wrap.

What?  Popless poppers?  Who ever heard of such a thing?

I thought my right to mindlessly pop Bubble Wrap bubbles while I consume vast quantities of vodka was constitutionally protected?

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It seems the two guys who invented Bubble Wrap, while trying to improve their textured wallpaper line, had no idea of the unintended benefits of their unintended miracle product.

PROTECTION:  After falling off the TNT set while broadcasting an NBA playoff game, Shaquille O’Neal returned next game-day wrapped in a protective Bubble Wrap suit … all 7’1”, 344 pounds of him.

Nat Geo TV conducted quasi-scientific experiments to determine the protective qualities of Bubble Wrap when you tumble from a first story roof.  Can you clean your gutters wrapped in about 40 yards of Bubble Wrap?

THERAPEUTIC:  For sure!  One minute spent popping the individual bubbles in Bubble Wrap relieves as much stress as a 33-minute massage.

According to some folks, the benefit of popping Bubble Wrap, unlike yoga or meditation, is its instant gratification.  And 44% of men and 35% of women say quicker is better when it comes to relieving stress.

ACCEPTANCE:  No s**t … there’s a national Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day … its scheduled the last Monday in January.

So, a moment of silence for Bubble Wrap … and a pox on Amazon.  Drown me with your delivery drones, Amazon, while you no longer provide me with a free toy and therapy session.

Just sayin’ …

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Here are the links for more about Bubble Wrap and stress relief, protection from falls, and the new iBubble Wrap.

http://keyw.com/one-minute-spent-popping-bubble-wrap-relieves-as-much-stress-as-a-half-hour-massage/?trackback=tsmclip

http://tvblogs.nationalgeographic.com/2014/02/03/can-bubble-wrap-protect-you-from-a-13-foot-fall/

http://ftw.usatoday.com/2015/05/shaq-bubble-wrap

http://www.people.com/article/new-bubble-wrap-no-pop-ibubble-wrap

It’s time for the “Carrot Face Big Top Convention” … The GOP’s Circus Maximus is the “Yuugest Show on Earth!”

Picture all three rings filled with enraged blood thirsty pachyderms, twirling in tutus.  Astride two are the presidential hopeful and his Veep pick.

All are followed closely by the “GOP Losers” … they would be the not-picked Veep candidates armed with rubber gloves, hip boots, scoopers … and of course, stylish Trump “Keep China Great” hats.

Let the s**t fly!

Completely unreliable sources inform me that Don the Con has successfully branded this entire event starting with … re-naming it.

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With his hostile takeover of the GOP including the active leadership, Trump has changed the name of the Party to the T-GOP … phonetically that would be the Tee-Gop … for the Trump-Grand Old Party.

No longer known as Republicans, attendees will all be branded Trump-Publicans … literally.

First order of business?  Drop those pants and hike those skirts.  All butts bare!

Trumpheads, young men sporting “Trumpdoos,” led by Chris “Waddler-in-Chief” Christie will sizzle T-GOP on each delegate’s tender right cheek.

Aah, “Feel the Bern!”

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Corporate sponsor shortage?  “No problema” for the PT Barnum of the T-GOP.

All proceeds from convention paraphernalia … we’re way beyond the cheesy hats … goes to the Trump Family Foundation, formed solely to support the T-GOP.  That’s after salaries for The Family.

Meals?  The Trump Food Alliance supplies all those who want to eat.  No matter that meals are prepared by undocumented Mexicans spitting in the food.  They work cheap … no minimum wage problem here.

Thirsty?  There’s Trump “Flint River” Water, Trump Truth-Free Beer, Veuve Trompe Champagne, and TrumPutin Vodka.  All served in Trump Triple-D Cups.

Want “red meat?”  A measly $150,000 gets Trump Steaks for each caucus.

Speaker’s Fees?  No Hillary Clintons here.  Not for the T-GOP.

Each speaker donates $250,000 – family members exempted – for the privilege of addressing delegates.  And it’s “Bonus Time” … speakers also receive a life size hot-air-inflatable Trump for unlimited photo ops.

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Unpaid bills at the end of this smoke and mirrors affair?  Just contact Don the Con’s lawyers.

Yep … the same ones handling his Atlantic City casino bankruptcies.  Oh, and Trump University.  Hmm, and Trump Institute.  Is the T-GOP the latest on this list?

Hey … it’s only money … yours!

Just sayin’ …

I was thirteen … the age when boys usually became “sexually aware” of their bodies.  Yep, “dat tang” suddenly was available for something other than peeing.

So I got my first, “The Doctor Says …” pamphlet from my mom, which she slipped under my pillow.

I dutifully read it, but what puzzled me even more was the box of Kellogg’s Cornflakes under my pillow beside the pamphlet.

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Many mango seasons later, I finally “got it.”  Finally, I Googled just why she had placed the box of corn flakes under my pillow.

I don’t know why I waited this long to “solve the corn flakes mystery,” but I did … wait and solve it.

The “Krazy Kelloggs,” John H. and William K. were Seventh Day Adventists and started a sanitarium and health spa in Battle Creek, Michigan in the mid-1890s.  They took the issues of diet and personal health very seriously.

John H. was a tad more conscientious about the health issues than was his brother, WK.  In fact, some thought John was flat off his rocker when it came to human sexuality.

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He and his wife believed in abstinence, sleeping apart so as not to fall into the hands of the Devil.

As if that weren’t tough enough, good old John H. also believed that the practice of “onanism” was a mortal sin and led a man directly down the path of ill health and ultimate ruin.

According to the writings of John H., there are 39 different symptoms of a person plagued by hand-to-gland combat, including general infirmity, defective development, mood swings, fickleness, bashfulness, boldness, bad posture, stiff joints, fondness for spicy foods, acne, palpitations, and epilepsy.

And here, I just thought it would make me blind.

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John H. thought that the male sex drive was fed by spicy hardy foods and that bland tasteless foods lessened that drive.  He and brother WK fiddled (not with each other) in the kitchen and viola came up with a mushy, flattened, bland, corn batter which they oven-baked and broke into flakes.

Enter … quite possibly the worst tasting cereal in the entire 30-yard cereal aisle in your local supermarket.

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There are three salient points from this legend:

John H. died a miserable unhappy man.

As proof of how horrible cornflakes taste, just ask “Tony the Tiger” what a bit of sugar did for the wretched cereal.  And …

since childhood I have steadfastly refused cornflakes.

Just sayin’ …

Under no circumstances should you try to Wikipedia, Google or SNOPES my ideas, or in any way assign a degree of truth to what I say about “Brexit” … the British exit from the European Union.

That’s not to say, I’m a hoax.  Just consider yourself duly warned that you should not take this absurdity … seriously.

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• “Brexit” is not a British breakfast. So as the Pound continues its freefall and Britain becomes cheaper than in the 1950’s, don’t fly to London and order a rasher of bacon for “Brexit.”  That’s a no-no.

• Scores of Brexiter Brits woke up the next morn and asked the cogent question, “WTF is a European Union?” They then asked, “Why didn’t you tell us that we’d Eff things up if we prematurely pulled out of this EU-thingie?  We just wanted to jack you around.”

• Brits can now change their name to Britain … no longer Great Britain and certainly not a “United Kingdom.” Scotland and Northern Ireland, the residence of the more intelligent voters, will probably demand their freedom from the UK … making them simply, “The K.”

• The Brexiters belatedly discovered that neither of the main parties controlling Parliament had a plan to “Leave.”

• Many Brits, some say a majority of those who voted to leave the EU, also did not know they had a Parliament. They thought that “London” ran the government, and the Queen waved from her carriage on Monday of the fourth week of each month.  Cheerio to that!

• The weird hair resemblance of Britain’s Boris Johnson and our Donald, the prime drivers of “Our-country’s-so-effed-up-our-only-hope-is-to-trash-it,” is proof that people who favor candidates with weird hair should not be allowed to vote … unless it’s for “What’s for dinner?”

• Speaking of dinner, it’s now totally true that the Brexits can say ciao to affordable fresh porcini tossed in hand rolled pasta, au revoir to delicate macarons, auf wiedersehen to tender schnitzel, and adios to the zesty paella they used to get from across the channel. It’s cold franks-n-beans from the can for you dunderheads.

So Brits … you’ve really screwed the pooch this time.  No more looking down your noses and berating your uncivilized across-the-pond relations pretending to be way smarter than we are.

That is, unless we choose to elect Don the Con … and “Amexit” from the rest of the world.

Just sayin.’