Scuzzy wuzzy was my underwear.

Scuzzy wuzzy was my underwear.

I bought it from Digz Dezines. They recommend you name each of your underwears, just like how you're supposed to name your sword in Game of Thrones. My underwear, Scuzzy wuzzy,

is on intimate terms with me, so I know Scuzzy Wuzzy hates washing machines. That's why I go out on a limb to keep it out of them, no matter he's the only briefs I'll ever wear.

Mr. Scuzzy wanted epsom salts for his aching joints, it was cheaper than MSM/glucosamine. The lavendar epsom salts did the trick. Being immortal meant

having aching joints for the rest of eternity. Mr Scuzzy would have to stock up hundreds of epsom salts to keep his joints from aching. But storing up infinite epsom salts would be

a problem, since Mr. Scuzzy lived in a tiny place and could only store so much Epsom salts, aching joints or not. He could dig a hole and bury them! Unfortunately, his landlord saw

-ed through the floor in an attempt to install an elevator in the building so he could charge more for rent. Mr. Scuzzy and his epsom salts fell through the hole and broke every

pratfall shtick in the book. The facedown in the toilet. Toilet tank to the head. The cat that joins him for three floors, all of them. Finally Mr. scuzzy ends up on the ground flo

or where he crashes into a pile of toilet. Dusting himself off, Mr. Scuzzy looks up at the destruction he has wrought. Was it worth it? "Nah," he thought, "but I'd do it again."