What, me worry?

"When you overcorrect, you end up in a ditch...It's important to be steady."

Think Spring Delights ... four days and counting....

Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.

—Edmund Waller (1606 - 1687)

Lost and Found

Corporate America's Missing Icon.

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Photo courtesy of Zoom Street

Notice to Readers Who Might be Offended

It has come to the attention of the Editorial Board that certain readers have been (or are about to become) offended by the scatological nature of some of the news items and articles which appear on this page.

Regarding the news we print, it should go without saying that we do not create the news, but merely report it—in as fair and balanced a manner as possible.

We are, after all, human beings.

In the words of H.L. Mencken, “Sh-- happens,” and when it does, Le Scat Noir is on the scene. And that is as it should be.

We are, after all, journalists.

It is fair to state that the literary texts we occasionally publish—as well as the photographs and illustrations which accompany them—are, by and large, of a wholesome nature and might easily appear in a magazine for Boy Scouts. On the other hand it is a well known fact that many artists possess neurotic and/or perverted psychologies and derive peculiar satisfaction from exploring scatological subject matter. Indeed, some psychologists argue that artists are by nature “sick” and should be confined to mental hospitals where they can “masturbate like monkeys” without posing a threat to the general public.

The Editorial Board is divided on this point.

Associate Editor Paul du Frond-Massage seemed confused by the notion. “I thought rabbits were the ones always masturbating…”

Derek Pell, the Editorial Director, believes we should avoid publishing scatological works because they are—quite literally—beneath us. “The stuff is asinine,” says Pell. “And it’s patently offensive to the vast majority of the American public. Art and literature preoccupied with excrement is not just sophomoric, but it undermines this publication’s credibility and purpose.”

Maurice P. Turdot II, Le Scat Noir’s patron saint and mascot, disagrees. “We should be guided by the words of the great Antonin Artaud: ‘All art is pig-sh--!’ Thus—like it or not—to publish art and literature is to be actively engaged in the distribution of excrement. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying that publishing this ‘sh--’ is anything to be ashamed of. On the contrary... our mission is a noble one for, unlike The New York Times and our other competitors, we publish only the very best sh--.”

This journal’s Art Director, Alfred Bourdot, poses a rhetorical question. “Does anyone really give a sh--? Nobody reads anymore, so what difference does it make? Even if we were in the business of making waves, nothing we’ve published has produced the slightest ripple except, maybe, that piece on ‘toilet art’ which upset a few cowardly advertisers and the handful of unbalanced readers who bombard us with hate-mail…. Perhaps if we published details on how to make a portable nuclear device we’d cause a stir, but other than that, forget it. This entire column is utterly absurd!”

We will let M. Bourdot have the last word on the subject since we’ve exceeded our word-count and run out of sh--.

If the Stink "Stinks," Northampton Flunks

NORTHAMPTON, Mass. - A "Stink Squad" of trained noses has been employed to root out Northampton's landfill odors. The city has hired specially trained stink-sniffers to help determine whether the dump is too pungent for neighboring homeowners to stand.

Northampton officials signed a $25,000,000 contract with an Agawam environmental company, Skunkbusters, Ltd., after state officials ordered independent sniffing of landfill odors. Using little more than their own noses and a reference guide (Everyman’s Encyclopedia of Foul Odors: Third Edition), the Stink Squad members will detect and rate the strength of landfill gases, rotting flesh, and other common unpleasantries. Ratings are ranked on a scale of 1 to 8, as follows:

1. Mildly nauseating, but bearable 2. Rather foul, open the windows 3. Distinctly noxious 4. Who died? 5. Gross me out! 6. Beyond repulsive 7. Are those your socks? 8. Are there any barf bags left?

Each sniffer holds an advanced degree in Stenchonomics, and must judge the smells against a “shit kit” they carry featuring ready-to-sniff odors of various intensities, e.g., elephant feces, frog vomit, cadaver gas; etc.

If the Stink Squad assigns a rating +4 on their scale, the city could be fined or ordered to make changes. A rating of 8 will require that Northampton be bulldozed.

Le Scatman Cometh

Meet Maurice. Maurice P. Turdot, II to you. To us, he’s “Stinky Le Scatman,” our loveable little mascot—resurrected from piles of detritus in the editorial cellar. Surely he’s a sight for sore eyes, if not a sniff for sore nostrils. True to form, “Stinky” paused for an ever-so-brief “stop-and-squat” with the editors before dashing off on his rounds.

M. Turdot, of course, is always on the runs; a man of distinction, a man with a mission—scampering hither and thither, dashing east, dashing west, always on the go, and then he’s gone.

His motto: “Merde happens!”

Le Scat Noir is proud to have him back on this page, so long as he keeps his distance. So don’t be surprised when he suddenly appears. No need to extend your hand in friendship, just tip your hat and flash a shit-eating grin.