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.

This better not be one of those ironic wish-granting signs. You know, the kind that grants your fondest wish while somehow finding a loophole in your phraseology that allows it to also curse you with anal leakage and backne. I’m thinking it’s safe, though. If it were an ironic wish-granting sign it would probably be wearing 70s molester glasses and a handlebar mustache.

When life gives you lemons, you can make lemonade. Which is OK, I suppose. But lemonade is cold comfort when you’re crouched in the corner of a dive bar bathroom quietly sobbing as you rock back and forth cradling a lump of your own feces in your arms. However, if life gave you a t-rex, a kitten, a laser helmet and an ice cream cone, then we’d be fucking talking.

According to Snooki, the ocean is salty because of whale sperm. Ohmygoshyouguys, Snooki’s, like, really, really smart and her intellectuality is way impressive and stuff. Oh, and I heard her vagina can drink you under the table and then refill your flask.

Whale Tissue Holder, $29.99

via decor8