Praise Jeebus. Someone finally designed a bathtub that helps you perfectly line up your butt crack.

Let me tell you a little story. It’s called the day I (almost) grew up. It was today. It happened on etsy. I typed in “poop” because I wanted something really gross to write about…and not a single poop product made me laugh. Getting older is a real bitch. After that I headed over to Swiss Miss and found these Toilet Paper Roll Owls and I find them charming. Gag. Someone put me out of my misery before the arthritis sets in.

Behold, The Body Shop’s Twin Ball Massager. Otherwise known as The Post that Wrote Itself.

Use this color-changing showerhead to turn your shower into the red light district. Even more so than your love of anal already does.

While you and I were sitting around eating our boogers and pondering why our armpit sweat smells like pan-fried onions, some genius used time that could have been spent curing cancer making this commode-o-dragon. I would just like to say, well done sir or madam. Well done.

My pals Molly and Taylor got married in Atlanta this weekend and, while the wedding itself was triple-fun, gorgeous times a hundred, thoroughly weep-inducing, and brimming with tots bearing irrationally polished breakdancing skills, I still managed to find some filth along the way. Namely Filthy Farmgirl soaps, which I eyeballed in a store in some fucking neighborhood with some goddamn name. Look it up on Google maps!

Moral of the story: clean up your Filthy Beaver, Filthy Pussy, Filthy Ass or Filthy Cock and maybe some blind idiot will marry you someday. And by “blind idiot” I clearly mean whoever that dude is who married Tori Spelling.

You might need this, but I have hired help for this sort of thing. And when I say hired help I mean porcelain dolls that I pay in cheese.

Here it is, people. The long-awaited toothbrush with built-in paste. Yes, science has eliminated that pesky tube-squeezing portion of your morning routine. Imagine all of the useless crap you can invent with that reclaimed 5 seconds. What about your butt cancer, you ask? We’ll get right on that. We just need to science the fuck out of car-seat butt warmers first. They’re just not warm enough.

I don’t need some mouthy mirror greeting me with shock every time I wake up looking like shit from a long night of drinkin’ and humpin’. It’s bad enough waking up to my boyfriend’s girlfriend screaming that I’m an ugly whore and dragging me out of her bed by my strap-on.

Maybe You Touched Your Genitals Hand Sanitizer is for all you sinners out there, not me. My palms are pure. Covered in hair, but pure.

Some of you may argue that this is neither Badder, nor Homes, nor Gardens. Please. I’ve seen inside your hovel and I assure you nothing has ever been more apropos.