GWiMMRN, Anustastin' Mardi Gras Edition

In New Orleans, it's Mardi Gras. I understand that it's a gigantic street party where sweaty people get drunk, throw up, and shout "SHOW US YOUR TITS!" to promiscuous, unattractive college girls. And there're beads. It's also rumored that Annie Potts plans to gorge herself on spooch, bio back-spatter pancakes, and Spermarang Surprise from today all the way through Lent. The seminal Atkins Diet, so to speak. All this, however, doesn't mean SHIT. What DOES mean SHIT is what's in my mouth right now. Guess:

A) The two golden labs that live in the back yard of the house on the corner and wag their tails when I drive by and wave to them
B) Hot buttermilk sprayed from Annie Potts's floppy funbags
C) Spongy chunks of bitten-off ass-flesh from a dead man's crack
D) The vague feeling that there may be no more lines to cross, and that this site may have offended everyone it can
E) A hood ornament
F) The dreaded words, "My woung--my woung ich kaup ih yor wing."
G) More Boyz n the Hood
H) A big, fat cock effervescing with buttery white wine