For the second night in a row, the Flea opens by yammering about Shizzy like a middle-schooler who just discovered the boy band exists.

It’s almost as if she’s developed a full-blown schoolgirl crush on the Whizzing Nuts and wants him served up warm, salty, and preferably with a side of public humiliation.

She claims the Shizz loves her hubby so much because “Shitzzy Dumb Nuts” also loves the ‘bad boys,’ like her, and that’s why he totally, absolutely loves Goober, and that’s why he can’t stop talking about him.

Both panelists (Bootlicker and Flea) giggle into their respective mics and chant like a cult that’s run out of better material: “he wants a bad boy.”

The chatter quickly slides into the fine print of Shizzy’s alleged desires for the felonious Goober. The Flea floats the groundbreaking theory that Shizzy might just be jealous of the Goob.

Then she zeroes in on the real prize: the hair. “It’s got to be the hair.”

(Lorty-bee… who would be jelly of thinning, greasy hair that Goober himself admitted he didn’t wash once the entire time he was in the ‘big house’?)

eww

The crusty Bootlicker, never one to leave a low-hanging innuendo unpicked, wonders whether it’s jealousy or straight-up infatuation. She paints a vivid little mental movie of Shizzy swinging around his own studio, eyeing up the Goob with pure lust in his whizzy little heart.

blink

The Flea isn’t fully sold on the infatuation angle, but she knows for a cold, hard fact that Shizzy is obsessed with her husband. She reminds everyone that Shizzy once called her “his muse,” and now “all he can do is talk about Goober.”

Booty-lick-a-lot starts cackling that Shizzy wants to be Fleasa’s unicorn.

When the Flea plays along like it’s something adorable and wholesome, the Bootylicker asks if the Flea even knows what that means…

Of course Fleasa claims she has “no clue what that actually means” and gives a little exasperated giggle to her friend before exclaiming, “I don’t even want to know what that means in your brain.”

(Oh me-oh my)

Bootylicker whispers her definition of a unicorn into the Flea’s ear, which promptly launches the Flea into full defensive mode: “That’s not happening,” followed by the official declaration, “We don’t fly that way.”

The Flea then apologizes (for the second time) for not wanting Shizzy’s unicorn essence and declares, “If you ask me, he’s just making himself look like an idiot.”

(Nah. The real idiocy is being beamed out from whichever village still thinks Shizzy, or anyone with a functioning brainstem, would catch the hots for a greasy-haired wannabe rocker and his thoroughly infested wife. That’s not just crazy. That’s beyond-crazy with a side of “please seek help.”)

beyond

She digs deep into the lint-filled pockets of her mind and produces this dusty gem:

“Goober doesn’t fly that way, dude. You need to go find somebody else that might be interested in you, ya know, cuz Goober don’t fly like that and we are not swingers.”

She warns Shizz that “he should be looking elsewhere…DUDE.”

When a squeaky Wallower from the audience dares to ask if perhaps Shizzy is a drunk, the Flea snatches that softball out of the air and smashes it: “He looks like one.”

She quickly course-corrects with the classic “I don’t know this for a fact, but he’s always drinking something and smoking something, so who knows.”

(Damn. Is Shizzy really a drunk unicorn out here hunting for his next conquest?)

gasp

The Flea then admits she’s been receiving clips of Shizzy’s shows for the last few days and proceeds to dissect them like a high-school biology student who just discovered sarcasm. She puffs out her chest and diagnoses him as swimming in the ‘defamation pool’—without floaties or goggles, naturally.

She complains that Shizzy has been defaming her poor Goober and “Oh my God, he’s going gung-ho.”

Then she drops the conspiracy bomb: “If you ask me, it sounds like somebody told him to.”

blink

The Flea scans her trusty scrawled notes and announces, “We are going to go over a bunch of chit that was said this week.”

But before she can even warm up, Bootylick-a-lot starts yelling “hellos” over the Flea’s grumbly voice, effectively cutting her off at the cankles.

Fleasa tries again.

Her co-host talks over her again.

blink

Third attempt. Same result.

Bootylicker is determined to claim the limelight like it’s the last free sample at Costco.

Finally, the Flea accepts defeat, pivots to her Swallowers and Wallowers, and launches into her own carnival-barker hello routine, shouting names like she’s raffling off a prize pig.

sigh

She eventually wrestles the stage back and promises to stay tuned for “The Book of Faces” and just how looney those “Hags of Humanity” women really are.

blink

(But you’re going to have to read that part somewhere else, because I’ve got an incoming migraine brewing and my “give-a-chit” is still out of warranty. So I’m calling it for the day, or possibly two.)

burn-out

Toodles Poodles ♥️
8:02/3:30:06