Last Monday evening, just after the time change, the four of us were sitting in the living room after dinz when we noticed one of their clocks was wrong. Some discussion of Day Light Savings ensued, until Mama Shakes noticed the second hand was stuck. Papa Shakes changed the clock's battery and rehung it on the wall. It worked for a moment, and then the second hand stuck again.
"What the poop?!" exclaimed Mama Shakes.
We all looked at her. "What the poop?" I said. This sent us all into gales of laughter.
For the rest of the night, I could say almost nothing else to my mother besides "What the poop?!" in increasingly ridiculous voices. In the intervening week, "What the poop?!" became more and more hilarious to me, as I found all kinds of uses for it. Out of milk? "What the poop?!" Try a new place for dinner? "What the poop?!" Bush makes an insane statement about how the Iraq War can be won? "What. The. Poop?!"
I began to realize that "WTF," while exceptionally useful in conveying cynical anger, paled in comparison to the genius of "What the poop?!" when one needs to express guileless bewilderment at so much weird and fucked-up shit in the world. Like clocks with bad ass 'tudes or finding out Karl Rove is married with a kid. (I mean, what the poop?!)
So last night, when we visited Parental Manor again, I told Mama Shakes that "What the poop?!" was going straight on the blog—and she was going to have to pose for a picture, to which she immediately consented, because she's as batshit nutz as I am. (Her only requirement was that I post a nice picture of her, too, which you see above.) So we started the photo shoot, but we couldn't get the "What the poop?!" face just right; she kept looking too angry. Then I said, "More Napoleon Dynamite!" and immediately came the perfect shot.
In future, when there are times I just. can't. believe. some story or other, nothing else will suffice. Mama Shakes must ask, nay demand to know, "What the poop?!" And we shall demand with her, bitchez.