Our first forray into scatological humor

We here at Farang Industries think of ourselves as "high society" people, exemplars of taste and discernment. Tiara quaffs only Hennessy Beauté du Siècle, Ian won't turn the ignition of any lesser vehicle than his Rolls Phantom Silver, and Charlie... well, Charlie's learning.

(On the subject of learning, a quick aside to Farang's new Chief of Staff Preston Vanderbilt Esquire: The Remy XO is only to be served to the canines of visiting guests; the Jaguar is only to be used for picking up dogfood like Remy XO. One more mistake and you're out on the street like Dillinger Carnegie.)

You are probably wondering why I bring all this up; surely our credentials are unimpeachable, and the 'Farang' name is synonymous with refinement and class. Well, dear reader, it is with heavy heart that I confide that the roar from the financial meltdown has sent echoes even into the upper echelons of society. Ad contracts are expiring, sponsorship is down, and readership is dropping off as more of our loyal devotees turn their attention to finding new employment instead of reading our blog at their (now empty) mahogany desks. In these troubled times we at Farang are trying to grow our readership by courting the... how to say? peasantry. So here now, we extend a foul smelling olive branch, a small gastrointestinal gesture of good will: a "poop" joke, which our consultants have assured us is something that you people enjoy.

Editors advice: Skip the fudge