It’s early for his taping; not even the technicians have come in yet. But Poopmouth, the star of Fox News’ hottest show, “Poopmouth!,” has let himself in with his own key to the set, a perk that not even Sean Hannity gets. Looking around with a mischievous grin, he goes up to the set of his talk show, pulls a magic marker out of his Givenchy Star Patch leather jacket, and scrawls the words SUCK MY DICK across the giant photo of the New York skyline.
Later a janitor will clean it off, as he does every time Poopmouth does this. But the bad boy of Fox News — “sworn to fun, loyal to Trump,” as his press kit puts it — will write an obscenity on the wall of his set again soon. (He may come in the middle of the night, after a hard night of partying, and leave the same message. He’s done it before.) This brash, in-your-face gesture symbolizes Poopmouth’s contempt for tedious conventions and the “media Deep State” that he blames for not making him a star sooner.
“There’s only one thing I hate worse than no-talent stuffed shirts trying to bring me and my boys down,” declares Poopmouth as he enjoys a pre-show Regal Gold Rush at trendy midtown bar Lantern’s Keep, “and that’s Alexendria O-Casualty-Abortez and Kamala Hairless!” He underlines these japes by clacking a pair of castanets he apparently keeps on his person.
The jaded habitues of Lantern’s Keep pay no mind, but millions of Americans eagerly tune in to “Poopmouth!” every night to hear the Patchogue, Long Island native trade similar jokes with what he calls his “Poopmouth Round Table,” a panel comprised of former Newsmax White House correspondent Tabby Mith Jacuzzi, house music podcast co-host Segundo Banana, and Rastt, a black guy.
For example, in today’s taping, Poopmouth mocks the Golden Globes for giving an award to the Spielberg remake of West Side Story. “That’s a movie that needed a giant shark to eat all those boring losers!” Poopmouth cries; the audience laughs, and he runs around the room receiving high-fives. He then tells his Round Table that there was a movie of the exact same name in the 1960s, and that it even had the same plot, which seems to come as a surprise to them.
After pretending to sing parts of West Side Story’s famous songs in a high-pitched voice while flapping his hands and rolling his eyes, Poopmouth gives a speech on the various inadequacies of Puerto Ricans, whom he calls “too stupid to defend themselves from a stupid hurricane,” and whose food he says “all tastes like soap.” He adds that there are “hardly any black people in the movie, mostly Puerto Ricans, which when you think about it makes Puerto Ricans the real racists.” This occasions more high-fives.
Poopmouth also points out that his bête noire Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is also Puerto Rican, “which is why she’s so ugly.” This turns the conversation to Ocasio-Cortez’s recent COVID diagnosis, mention of which makes the panelists too giddy to continue for a full minute. Poopmouth claims the New York Congresswoman caught the virus “sucking big Puerto Rican dicks.” (Fox will bleep the obscenity, though its content will be made plain on Poopmouth’s Twitter feed.)
This is followed by a sketch in which Rastt, dressed in a lurid lime-green 70s pimp outfit, responds to the other panelists’ accusations against him (“You raped me with your big black penis!” peeps Jacuzzi, to shrieks from the audience) by saying “that’s racist, I cut yo’ ass,” and then pretending to stab them with a giant foam-rubber switchblade, and a closing segment on “Skeezy Joe Biden,” ending with an animation of the President wearing a comically oversized face mask, which turns out to be a diaper befouled with baby feces. (“What’s the malarkey?” the voice of “Joe Biden” croaks. “Oh no — my mask — it’s really a diaper — and it’s full of poop!”)
“Suck on that, Skeezy Joe!” yells Poopmouth as the audience roars. “Thank you, good night, and make America great again!”
“Poopmouth is effecting a canny reversal of the way late-night television aesthetics have evolved,” explains Ball State professor Manfred Sheboygan, author of Post-smart TV: Mythos, Ethos, Chaos. “The old late-night hosts began as vaudeville clowns and advanced over time into something more sophisticated, whereas the new hosts have retreated from sophistication to clownishness, and in fact have gone even further back to the time of medieval fools, entertaining royalty with crude jokes about their enemies, fart jokes, and actual farts.”
“I don’t care about a bunch of college faggot horseshit,” says Poopmouth, pointing to the I IDENTIFY AS A FAGGOT button on his lapel to discourage any comments on his lack of political correctness (there is a button directly beneath it that says “No I don’t/Ladies call me”). He is having a smoke outside the Alibi Lounge in Harlem, a place he says he likes because “no one bothers me here because they don’t watch the show, it’s like being on a South Sea island or Africa or something.”
“But,” Poopmouth adds, seized by inspiration, “I liked what that guy said about me being like part of a royal court in olden times. It’s like Trump is king and Melania is his hot queen, and I’m like a jester only somehow higher up, like maybe an executive jester. Maybe we’ll make a bit out of that.” He takes out a pen as if to make a note of it but, looking quickly in both directions, he instead writes SUCK MY DICK on the wall of the building. Once again Poopmouth has made his mark.