Are you tired of your kitchenware not being crossbred with real live Human DNA, thus rendering your cooking space distinctly devoid of any and all of the moral gray areas previously only the stuff of fancy, frivolity and moonlit freak sessions in the boudoir of button-mashing Science-Fictionalist Kiki Trumble? Which, of course, is a pseudonym for Jack MacJack, the forgotten Fourth Light Jumper from Generation "Why Not?" You know, the goofbox who penned "Manbeast," "Womanbeast," "Bride of Manbeast," "The Manbeast Who Loved Women," "The Many Loves of Manny B. Grains," "Goosebumps #512: The Horrible Haunting of the House on Hooky-Kooky Boulevard Featuring Graphic Murder," "The Amateur's Guide to Enthusiasts" and the other 247 entries in the "Kiss My What?" series? Then The Flatula is for you. No longer will your Pancakes, Puccini Loaves and Papal Villagers glide easily off the pan with a noticeable lack of rectal remnants. With the Flatula, the only spatula with a real, live working human colon, your food is guaranteed to have "Shit in every bit" ™!

$100/head

Hark, what word is this I hear from a newspaper, but look what's made front page noose: Wrestling Team has written a play???

Mister E. Scientist: fearless gengineer, romantic poet, triphop pioneer and mediocre sculptor pines away in his basement splicing species like Dr. Moreau with a hard-on for boners. Mister is an obsessive with a compulsion for making a creature to love him like he loves creature-creation. And one day he does it after injecting half a ham sandwich with the splice of life (leftovers), out from his Complication Machine steps Dee Salinization Plant, a part pig/part lion. But can Mister love Dee? A noted homophobe who once won an award for being scared by the idea of men shaking hands, Mister is in love with the female half of his splice-speriment - Miss Piggy - but is scared of the cat wiener part from the M. Male Lion half, and if you are a dumdum, that "M." is the abbreviation for "Monieur." Also, Mister has a nosy neighbor that is really a gemstone.

Tony award-winning playwright Tony Playwright has said "Wrestling Team's first foray into legitimate theater is the toast of the town, and by toast and I mean roast and by town I mean clown: I haven't seen art this mesmerizing and mezmermaning since that performance of Pagliacci went Up in Flames (the Cheech and Chong sequel)."

When you purchase this, you get a script, stage directions, director's notes and you acquire the rights to perform acts 1, 2, 3, 5 and 8 (7 is pending as it is one-half of a spec script we wrote for 30 Rock).

$17.99

Mob mentality would have you believe that Jewish cooking is - how shall we put this delicately? - as nudne as last yontef's Ish Kabibble. As coarsely as that brusque bon mot tickles the Earic canal, it's not without the Colonel of Truth. And it is for that reason that the Colonel conscripted Gael Garcia Bernal, the sexiest screen presence this side of Prime Meridian: The Movie (Based on Real Facts, Actualities and Remembrances Half-Told in Whispered Hushiness), to write the Sexiest Jewish Cookbook This Side of Prime Meridian: The Book (Now A Major Movie Starring The Hottest Celebs on Vacation)! In it you'll find a recipe for Jachnun that will literally cause your lower jaw to shatter inside your face, leaving nothing but a sagging skin pouch of bone fragments, blood and nerves as raw as a Monday Night Wrestling Match. This doesn't even begin to cover the Tex-Mex Kreplach, the description of which can literally never be beginned.

An unimaginable cost

Look, so that guy that we wrote about in the now infamous play that we plagiarized from that other comedy duo The Stink Kings ("We stink at making you laugh, so instead we will dry hump your mind with desire.") and that played projected on the New York city skyline, you know, Mister E. Scientit, well...he's real. The Real Ghostbusters, that is. It's been a big secret thanks to a secrecy contract we signed that said if we ever revealed his presence, the company that owns his bones would reveal our pretense, and if there's one thing Wrestling Team gets off on, it's the fact that we connect with our blue collar brethren. All the way to the motherfracking blue collar bank run by construction workers and down-on-their-luck bluebloods and blue bloodhounds (Foofur), but are our collars red with embarrassment and also blood because we accidentally revealed his existence on television during our now infamous SNL monologue in which we did our now infantous routine about babies needing to douche more because their ballsacks stink like sinkrats. And although he's never created a being by splice-lifeing together some drums, he did create this thing accidentally by jerking off into a test tube. He calls it the Queever. It eats leftover subs off the floor of movie theaters so that employees can clean up 12% faster, and in the endtimes of Late Capitalism, that dumb shit counts. So now, if you own a movie theater, feel free to buy one and help Wrestling Team earn enough dough to pay for our legal defense after breaking their secrecy contract with the axe of revelation. Our lawyer is paid in pizza.

$7.99

Babies are busy. They lead hard, cruel lives of little repute and endless toil. They are slave to all manner of vice, clamping their dreams off at the scrote. And what do they receive for their guff, if not a pat on the back, a cheap gold watch and a swift kick in their Candied Yams? Nowhere near the retribution owed them for the limb they lost in that turbine on the factory floor, mind you. They gave an arm to that company, and this is how The Corporate Fat Cats repay America's pudgy cuties? Chili's understands, while they can't allay the ever-tightening grip Ol' Scratch maintains on the American Baby's downy-soft throat, they can at the very least put M80s under his eyelids as he sleeps, in a manner of speaking, with Chili's Baby Backrubs: the massage service for babies, while the babies eat Quality Meals.

$9.99

Hello, freaks. My name is Simpleton Saint Squirvix, and boy, do I have a tale to tell you, related in only the most buzzing, inhuman tones that your ears will interpret as the drone of a million Reapers dry humping their way to an orgasm of grim nothingness. When the dust settles, like ash flowing from a crematorium smokestack, one product will be left on Earth to rule us all. A product so otherworldly, so alien to our own consciousness that viewing it will drive the lucky mad and the unlucky dead. But the power emanating from it is unparalleled in this universe, but strangely impotent in parallel universes. Anyway, I'm blabbing on. You can't buy that product in the Wrestling Team store because its inception will signal the end of all life in the universe. Instead peep your peckers on this turd merchandise! According to "New York Times" restaurant critic Scalia Watercress, "Dude, Where's Your Sign is like Meet the Fockers meets Meet the Feebles. A jour de forceps!" And paired with his lectures on Saussure, this two-pack is a true sack of savings!.?,% Also included as a bonus are two Blue Collar Comedy brand dildos.

$19.99

The curious tale of Dr. T was ripped from the headlines by Dr. T himself, who, lacking a QWERTY keyboard willing to suit his needs, used all 5,000 of his fingers to cut up newsprint and rearrange the letters to complete his misty volume, heavy with tears, for he also had 5,000 left eyes, one for each version of Lisa "Left Eye" Lopez that was reproduced by his color copier when he used to be the music pirate, MP3 McGee. Eventually, he passed out and became a coma victim, only to be nursed back to H.E.A.L.T.H., the Robert Altman flop about acronyms. During his convalescence, he studied to become a Pussy Inspector under the cartilage of the great Dr. Anthro P. Morpheus-Rex, M.D. Soon he was a success, a successor and suck-sass Lord, and he had his many fingers in every hair pie from Tullulah Sue Abernathy's to Blanche Damely's to Souther N. Belle's to Dixie Marie Blueblood's to Hester P. Rinse's, and then he died because his freakish existence was a mistake and God sorted it out.

$2 bill

What better poem to adapt into a hardcore porno - 24 spurts per second as Godard famously said at gunpoint when I forced him to - than William Butter Yeats's famous pre-post-modern classic "How The Grinch Stole Christ-Mass - The Hip-Hop Version"? Helmed by Jacques Titty, the ne'er-do-well director of L'École des Sack-teurs and the fetish film Jour de Feet, The Second Cumming turned out to be his final film before becoming a werewolf, and what a legacy this man had left. Or should I say "leg-assy"? Oh, hold on. Hmm, hmm, hmmm...ok, no, according to my spellcheck, that would be incorrect. "Legacy" it is. Oh, from the first line, muttered by famed Shakespearean actor Sir Van Grumbles (again, at gunpoint), "Turning and turning in the widening vagina", the viewer is off on an erotic journey through a jumbled metaphor for the Irish troubles. By the end, your boner will be slouching towards Bethlehem!

$19.99

We all know what Almodovar's masterpiece was missing, so let's just all come out and say it. It didn't have a wall-to-wall soundtrack featuring the timeless tunes of four moptops who irrevocably changed the cultural landscape of the 20th Century. No, I'm not talking about Sheriff Tuck and The Fuckups, the band from that other dimension who charted with the tender ballad "She's Cramping My Style" in 1963 when the Army accidentally tore down the barriers between worlds when Private Lance Shit tried to microwave a potato made of tin, and then again in 2017 when Time Lost All Meaning. I'm talking about The Fab Foursome, The Beatles. Luckily, auteur Frank Tickleby was shamed by his genius into reimagining Almodovar's Volver into a shot-for-shot remake, boasting the same cast and crew from the original, wherein literally every second is filled with the soundtrack of America's Innocence being ganked in the cherubs, fresh from the pen of LennonMcCartney, the great musical Beast.

$35.99 each

David Angell, one of the co-creators of Frasier, was once a mythic beast whose hide dates back to a medieval chancellory, where he was one of the co-creators of Renaissance Frasier, which was a spinoff of Boccaccio's Decameron. His long life almost exhausted in 2006, Angell (the real-life Rambaldi who was fictionalized in Alias), made one last stab at spinoff history with his ripoff of Steven Levitan's Just Shoot Me spinoff Blush Babies, which followed the exploits of Jack Gallo as a child and also took place twenty years in the future and in a documentary-style chronicled the end of the Earth and the way in which the children of the those that worked at Blush magazine handle the worlddeath.

That's So Clavin: The Complete Series follows the life of mailman Cliff Clavin after the show Cheers ended. In a metafictional turn, real life is mixed with fantasy as Clavin gains mystical powers from a sewer rat that accidentally merged with a wishing well in a freak anti-matter accident. The show also follows the real Cliff Clavin, who Ratzenberger's character was based upon, as he searches for a legendary gemstone that can restore the hand that accidentally withered when he touched the Wall of Unseeing. In the exciting final season, the two stories become more and more entangled until eventually both Ratzenberger and Clavin are written out to make way for a confusing final two-hour finale of edited-together Wilhelm screams.

That's So Clavin only aired in an alternate dimension, but thanks to a wormhole fuck-up, we accidentally got fifty mallots of those frelling yotz.

500 dreams (per night)

Sake has a long and storied history of getting hard-working folks fucked up quick and easy, dulling the pain of their questionable existences. The people of 3rd Century Japan were into it, and fuck if Joe Fucking Star-Spangled Sixpack doesn't cotton to a nihonshu or two, or twelve, when the going gets tough and the missus gets naggin'! And that's why sake is America's Number One Ancient Alcoholic Beverage From Asia. But what will truly send it over the top? An endorsement from a trusted and thoroughly washed-up celebrity named "the guy from the Monkees, Peter Tork. No, the one who "played" bass, because you know they were totally fake. No, way, man, I heard it from Shawn, it's totally true. Anyway, can you please pass me the sake? SPRING BREAK!"

$14/bottle

MAJOR RECTING'S EFFLUVIA FLUID

Homes, are your sand in sevens? Then perk up mere claims, and give my sentence a gander. Whose death do you wish for? Is it your own? Do you cry at night while sleeping, only to wake up with your nuts in a vise? Have you held a service for your face in which relatives peer into your eyes and whisper secrets unto them? Do you feast upon The Source of All Humanity with abandon and then vomit it up with remorse code at The Porcelain Basin of Bulemia? Then my friends, I have a cure for you: Major Recting's Effluvia Fluid will cure all ills, chill all blains, bill all lures, kill all danes, and finally slain all sills and penultimately, sell all souls. But wait, we're not selling snake oil to a bunch of dupes who are too stupid to see for what their money buys, we're selling Effluvia Fluid to an assortment of chuckleheads and knuckleheads and femurfeet and a gaggle of nimrods and numbskulls and scumrods. You will taste this once and spit out all your money in disgust straight into our bank accounts.

$200 each

Following the critical drubbing he received for his performance in the film Breakfast At Tiffany's, the fictional character of Mr. Yunioshi (named "Hu Flung Pu" in the original draft by Don Rickles) became despondent, detached, disoriented, d'alienated and he Didn't want to live anymore. He found an outlet for his rage in the film Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, identifying strongly with the title protagonist. In an attempt to channel his inner darkness, he set about writing an unofficial sequel, casting himself in the lead role. His masterwork was never to be completed, but Me So Henry, the unfinished work, has become a hotly sought-after cult item for school shooters and other sundry nutburgers across this filthy hellhole we call "good enough."

$0.28 per page

It's no secret that Wrestling Team has diarrhea of the imagination. One time they literally shit all over the house, and they couldn't even clean it up because there was a "Raymond" marathon on the TV. It's not their fault, they can't control it. It's like diarrhea. Geez, they even write totally boring shit like autobiographies. Which brings us to this slick tome, priced eagerly to weasel its own way into your pocket like a daemon, its heart beating closely to your own, comforting. Prose on Kahns is the most praised of the pantheon of pap squeezed out of Wrestling Team's queefing quills and onto the hearts of millions. The first official Autobiography of Madeleine Kahn, it tells the story of a young comedienne stricken with Jungle Fever, and subsequently embroiled in an imbroglio of a marriage to Shere Khan, the Tiger King of the Indian Jungle, and first husband to the funny gal. She was prescribed Antihistamines by nefarious Dr. James Caan, who stole the silly lady away from the vengeful Striped One and claimed her as his own. Kahn's marriage to Caan was short-lived, but through a fluke accounting loophole, they remained married for two consecutive lifetimes and are still alive somewhere unstuck from time.