At the tail end of all the Fay mayhem, I started finding little piles in my house.

one might try jumping to the sensible conclusion that Rocket

was responsible. And, if I said Ney it twasn’t that furry little bastard, a faithful reader might crack a dirt monster joke, which would make me snicker with glee and then run over to my window so I can peer out across the expense of my backyard and ponder the existence of said dirt monster with more then just a tad bit of apprehension.

And, if I showed you this photo of my nephew who seemed to delight in these mystery piles,

you might start to gag a bit and perhaps one or two of the more delicate and/or pregnant readers might hurl deeply from your toes, for which I sincerely apologize because really he’s not actually eating the poop. i mean, yeah it’s disgusting that he’s got that warm pile nestled in his hand and part of it precariously close to his precious tween taste buds but we all know I like to push the envelope of disgusting, particularly with my desserts. There was the infamous cat crap cake of ‘05

and now the rainy day peanut butter pile cookies

We perverted the recipe I used for my BOGO cookies. Yes, cookies taste great but it’s hard to keep a manchild enthusiastic about baking when he’s dolloping dainty drops of jam into cookies - that is sooooo no cool. Where are the ninja swords or fire? Yep, none to be found so you do the next best thing - you talk poop. What 11 yr old isn’t interested in scatology?

This was boy nephew’s favorite picture of the process

He felt that it had a rather nice emotional quality to it.