Children’s books are an essential part of growing up. How else are you going to learn some of life’s most important lessons? Such as, “Never judge a book by its cover.” Except, that’s a lie, because unless you’re cool with raising a family full of juvenile delinquents, then you need to judge the following pieces of garbage by their covers:
One, Two, Three, PULL!
Russ: One, two, three…PULL MY PUD! I’m not sure what this carefully composed throng of barnyard fuck buddies concatenated from smallest to biggest is supposed to be accomplishing besides an amusing anthropomorphic parody of The Human Centipede… but what I can say is that chicken sure is getting it. Probably because he’s got the best form by far.
Pat: I’m not sure what lesson is to be garnered in this book, unless it’s “don’t wake me up at the crack of dawn again or I will literally fuck you in the ass”. Or maybe the liquor was going down a bit too smoothly at the barnyard Christmas party, and things got a little out of hand. That chicken does look like it was asking to be run train on.
The Long Journey of Mister Poop
Russ: Is that… a fucking cherry? A fucking cherry on top of that steaming, pockmarked, pancake-flattened bipedal shit?
If you need a fully illustrated, 20+ page book to educate your child on proper pooping procedures or what “magical” journey their shit goes on that doesn’t consist of the words, “a toilet bowl and a cesspool,” then you’ve failed as a parent. Rubbing your kid’s nose in its own shit like a dog would be better than giving them this book.
But what does this scatological saga teach today’s youth? Mom comes home and finds out you, her dear child, took a shit all over the kitchen floor? No problem! Place a nice conciliatory cherry on top to show her, hey, this book taught me how to make the best out of any situation life throws my way, mommy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got some cherries to buy.
Pat: A couple of really interesting things going on here. First, kudos to the artist for rendering the piece of shit in a manner that is as far away from being anthropomorphic or relatable in any way, shape or form as humanly possible. Giving Mr. Poop (or Señor Caca, as I’m going to call all my dumps from now on) a vertical base and a practical center of gravity is taking the easy way out (I’m looking at you, Mr. Hankey).
Also, why is there a strange, crudely-drawn, angry looking, fencing rat unnervingly peering and pointing his pariser at the sentient clump of fecal matter while loudly exclaiming, “YUM”? You’re just going to have to keep reading to find out!
Gay-Time Painting Book
Russ: This is the sort of book that my kids are going to give to Pat’s kids to serve as a distraction before beating the absolute shit out of them. And they’ll say afterwards, “So what if I’m gay?”
Pat: Under normal circumstances, I would chalk this up to a changing of the times, wherein this book was written in a simpler time where “gay” simply meant “happy”. If that were the case, why in the name of all things holy is there a billygoat angrily ramming his horns up the painter’s ass, while he seemingly accommodates the billygoat by assuming a mountable position? Also, big ups to the mild-mannered, Deliverance-esque farmer, taking it all in without even the slightest bit of alarm, smoking a corncob pipe and playing a nice relaxing game of pocket pool.
Who Cares About Disabled People?
Russ:The only way I am going to answer the titular question of this book is if I can write a sequel entitled, “Who Cares About Pam Adams?”
Only it’s a pop-up book. And by pop-up book I mean a cardboard box whose insides I carved out like an elaborate jack-o-lantern so that when she opens it up she sees one word, scrawled hastily in crayon: “BEES!” Because I’m going to put a fucking beehive full of Africanized killer bees in a cardbox box and give it to her.
Pat: Who, indeed?! There’s just so much political incorrectness on this cover, I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe I’ll start with the title, which is a question posed so bluntly you have to assume the answer they’re fishing for is “nobody”. And then we come to the main antagonist of this handicapped chronicle, who is of course the one, token black person. We gotta show diversity somewhere, may as well fill that quota with the physically disadvantaged one! Also, why does that kid in the corner look like he’s making fart noises with his armpit while actually shitting his pants and smirking with a soul-crushingly bizarre grin that would make the Joker himself cower in fear? …Oh god, he’s “special”, isn’t he? I’m going to hell, aren’t I?
I Wish Daddy Didn’t Drink So Much
Russ: “Because daddy just wants to sit in front of his grandiose, private home theater complete with custom-sewn stage curtains and backdrop lighting and watch his fucking motion pictures in peace! What is so goddamn difficult to understand about that!? Now stop flogging your sister with that blood slathered cat o’ nine tails and fetch your old man another Leinenkugel!”
Pat: “Well honey, I wish you never happened!” (cue ‘womp wommmmmmmmpppp’ sound)