“No fucking way you can do it. I’ve got…22 bucks that says you can’t,” Edgar slurs. He hands Mark a cigarette and rubs his hands together to stay warm as they stand outside the bar.

“Oh man, I’ll fucking do it. I’ll do it tonight,” Mark slurrs back and drops the cigarette. He tries to pick it up, but his doubly-numb fingers find no purchase.

“All right…Two hours of writing and drawing, and you have to find someone to publish it.”

“You’re on! And you can choose the topic!” Mark challenges back, belches and gives up on the cigarette.

Edgar: “Golfing and sex.”

“You’re an ass. I don’t even golf.”

“…and you’ve been on a cold streak with the ladies for almost a year…and you’ve never written anything,” says Edgar. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you draw either. So two hours…Go!“

And that is how The Sensuous Golfer came to be.

Nothing says sparkly teeth like dinosaurs and sodium monofluorophosphate (the active ingredient).

It’s like a marketing department had one of those “there are no stupid ideas” brainstorms about what appeals to kids, and accepted every idea that crossed their minds. Colorful! Bubble gum! Shiny things! Dinosaurs! Yummy! Great work, guys.

Even the most hard-up alkie would be well-advised to steer clear of this putrid stuff. It tastes like minty assfire and even a whiff of it singes the nosehairs. The Dollar Store Rule of Thumb applies here: Never put anything from the dollar store in your mouth. Ever. For any reason.

Let me get this straight: If my wife uses this, will she turn into…that?

Apparently, there’s a market for ”our version of…” knockoff products, since you can buy this same product online for twice what I paid at the dollar store. Who would have thought that somewhere in the universe, this constitutes a good deal?

I don’t even know what “Let Your Sham Rock” means. I do, however, have a friend named Sham, who does indeed rock. So I know SOMEBODY who’s getting an early Eid al-Adha present!

I don’t want treats from any tricks who would wear these.

When I think of who would buy this, I always picture Buffalo Bill dancing in front of a mirror to the song Goodbye Horses with his junk tucked between his legs. “Would you f*** me?”

If there’s one thing old people like, it’s Matlock.

If there are two things old people like, it’s Matlock and hard candy.

Grandchildren of the world…beware.

2005 called. They want their weak-ass hip-hop trend back.

1999 called. They want their Bond villain back.

1640 called. They want to laugh at us for our awful dental practices.

Okay, I’m done.

I had to fight off Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin and Beyonce to get the last of these “Diva” signs. Because everyone knows that real divas like shitty plastic signs with fake purple feathers falling off them. Wait…did I say “divas”? I meant “crazy bitches with no taste.”