Jesus Is Lord, Especially on Sundays, Except in My Mouth

My mouth accepts no authority higher than itself, so Jesus, Buddha, Allah, and all the rest of them can just go scratch. They know who the boss is. My MOUTH. That's right.

So now you know. And, as G.I. Joe says, knowing is half the battle. What they never told you, though, is that the other half of the battle is guessing what's in my mouth right now:

A) The pubic hairs of all of the Desperate Housewives cast, except for Bree Vandekamp's, because I'm just not going to put her red-pink little follicles in my mouth
B) A full-scale doghair sculpture of Rodin's The Thinker, held together with Preparation H scooped out of every mother-lovin' inch of Larry "Bud" Melman's starfish
C) The remote control for the VCR that you lost a few years ago
D) The ambiguity implicit in C): which did you lose, the remote or the VCR? Oooo! The implications!
E) The reply that was on the tip of my tongue when the loudmouthed waitress at Old Chicago bellowed to another waitress: "HEY, WHAT'S THE SOUP OF THE DAY?" ("Cream of Shut the Fuck Up")
F) The nickname my wife gave to the annoying, bellowing, waitress that had a really horrible laugh ("The Horse Giggler")
G) Rodin's big, fat cock