The Ten Stages of Constipation As Told By C & C Music Factory Songs by Carolyn Busa

1) "Things That Make You Go Hmmm..." - Hmmm. Something doesn't feel right. 

2) "A Deeper Love" - This goes much further (in your bowels) than you thought. 

3) "Bounce to the Beat (Can You Dig It?)" - Literally. Dig that hole. 

4) "All Damn Night" - Still. Nothing. 

5) "Take a Toke" - Google says smoking might help. 

6) "Let's Get Started" - Oh. There's some movement. 

7) "Just a Touch of Love" - Dammit. That was barely anything. 

8) "Do You Wanna Get Funky?" - Prune juice. Apple sauce. You'll try anything.

9) "I Found Love" - Okay. Now things are moving.

10) "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)" - Take a shower. Your work is finally complete. 

I am MissToiletSlave by Carolyn Busa

At the rare chance I do a podcast or an interview, the question I get asked the most is 'What does your Twitter name mean?'

'MissToiletSlave', I tell them, 'is a lyric from a song about taking a shit.'


There's hardly ever enough time to get into it so I end up sounding like a freak. And that's fine. But with origin stories being all the rage these days I figured it was finally time for MissToiletSlave to get hers.


Back before I dreamed of doing comedy, I came across a semi-secret track on a Fischerspooner album. It started the same as their other tracks, synthesizers, bass, you know, electronic noises (I don't review music for a reason). However, instead of the male voices I was used to on previous tracks, a sexy, strung out, female voice began a laid-back rap of sorts. "Oh!" my brain said. "I like this."

I was a junior in high school who knew nothing about how sex worked and probably kissed with tongue roughly four times at that point. But this song! This song made me want to FUCK.

She sounded like a Vogue-era Madonna, except instead of 'Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers' I caught phrases like, "My man calls me cherry" and "I just smoked a pack of my Kool fags" and oh boy - "There is cum stain on my panties and jizz in my wig." Those words meant SEX and I was IN. 

A bit later when Twitter came into my life, it came time to think of a username. Had I known a few years later I'd be promoting myself as a performer, I may have just been @CarolynBusa. But because I was a child of AIM and screennames, I had to be creative and quirky and put my entire personality into a few letters. I was a little older at that point. A little more experienced. And I remembered that Fischerspooner song. I remembered how sexy that woman sounded. Especially when she said at the end of the song: "I've got to be strong. Got to be brave. Don't want to bear the title, MissToiletSlave." Yes! MissToiletSlave! MissToiletSlave was sexy! MissToiletSlave would turn heads! MissToiletSlave would never buy drinks herself! Sure, she'd spend the next day hung over but damn, she'd look good doing it. 

It wasn't until a bit later when I was at a bar with friends and they questioned me about my questionable handle. "Oh, it's from this sexy Fischerspooner song!" I happily said. But they weren't buying it. Using whatever first edition iPhone he had, my friend Pete looked up the lyrics online.

"Carolyn." he said. "This is a song about taking a shit."

"What! Nooooo." I laughed. "It's about a girl and being sexy and fucking and margaritas and jizz!"

He started reading to me.  

"Moaning and a heaving on a hot sticky can..."

"Yeah like! Sex moans!" I said.

"Storing up my supper, coffee and my snacks..."

"Hangover snacks, duh!"

"Ok." he said. "Explain this then, 'The shits piling up kinda feels like a cramp. Instant relief is what I need to ease the megacolon that's inside of me.'"

I couldn't think of an explanation for that one. He continued reading, each line more damning than the next until finally it all came crumbling down: "The shit got soft, creamy, slick. It came out in a blast that was really foul. Forget the White Clouds I need a Bounty towel."

"Ok, stop!" I begged. "You're right! It's a song about shit!"

I've gone through life obsessed with a song about shit. More embarrassing, I thought it was sexy as hell. My wet dreams were shattered. My brain somehow blocked all the shit-related lyrics leaving only the 'sexy' ones. And yes, the song was called 'Mega C' but like maybe the c stood for cool or cunt or even Carolyn!

Nope. Colon. A big, long, shit-filled colon. After that I thought long and hard about my web presence. Would people expect only poop jokes from me? What if I got famous and was known for my shit-handle rather than my actual jokes?  I opened up the settings on my Twitter account. I put my cursor in the username box and backspaced until only the M was left. I hit Delete a final time. In it's place I wrote 'CarolynBusa.' My profile page was updated and all my tweets stripped of any poop presence. No longer a slave to the toilet.

I spent the next couple days studying my page. CarolynBusa. CarolynBusa. CarolynBusa. Yeah, sure, that was indeed my name but I don't know, CarolynBusa didn't excite me! Sure, MissToiletSlave had a bad case of diarrhea but man, before that she was having margaritas and Chinese food and there's no way she got jizz in her wig doing something boring. 

With the urgency of Dr. Jack Shephard I again opened my Twitter settings. I had to go back.

I feared in those two days MissToiletSlave would no longer be available, gobbled up by another freak like me. But of course, there she was. I reclaimed my throne (!) and felt a sigh of relief flush, I mean, rush over me. 

Years later, my Twitter handle remains the same, I have an Instagram with the same name and my web series That's MISS Toilet Slave To You is premiering at the end of 2018. Okay, that last one isn't true but the point is, I love my MissToiletSlave identity. She's sexy for reasons you can't quite grasp. She's nasty, yet relatable. And yes, she finds humor in dark, sometimes hard to wipe, places.

An Open Letter To The People At The LCD Soundsystem Concert Last Night That I Pissed Off by Carolyn Busa

Last night, in the middle of an LCD Soundsystem concert, my dear friend Pamela took us on a journey from the back of Brooklyn Steel to the front of Brooklyn Steel. Not uncomfortably close to James Murphy's face but much closer than where we started. 

Carolyn! That's not good concert etiquette! 

Believe me! I know! As soon as she grabbed my hand and said, "Let's go." I hesitated.

"People will be pissed at us!" I said. But she said nothing, only marched forward. I flashed apology smiles to every angry person we passed. Thank goodness it was dark and the disco ball was on break because I knew I was blushing.

When she found us a closer spot, a group of friends angrily told us what they thought of our existence. Pamela, one of the kindest people I know, confidently stood her ground. "What is this your first concert?" she said to them without any hesitation or remorse. The piano in New York, I Love You started playing. Pamela hugged me. 

Suddenly I didn't care anymore about the people I had to push in front of to get where I was. Concert etiquette or not, I was allowed a moment of being a dick. Like Pamela, I am an overall kind and generous person. I go through my days constantly worrying about the well-being of others and what people think of me and I still think about that girl's foot I accidentally stepped on getting to my seat at Little Shop of Horrors two years ago. I hardly ever turn in my '10th Cup of Coffee Free' card because I feel bad not paying. I thank my bus driver. I don't try and get out of jury duty. I do dishes in the sink that aren't mine because I don't want to waste a perfectly good soapy sponge. I tip 20%. I pay half on first dates. I walk in the street when there isn't enough room on the sidewalk. I donate to Planned Parenthood every month. I send Thank You cards. I've held multiple elevators and my god, I have held so many doors.

When Pamela asked those strangers if it was their first concert, I thought back to all the concerts I've attended and all the memories I have of someone pushing past me in order to get a better view. Sure, it was annoying at the time and I probably sighed or rolled my eyes (never missing a lyric to Weezer's El Scorcho, of course). But even more annoying was how jealous I was of their ability to seize the moment and get what they were after. Sure, we both paid the same for admission but they wanted more. So they found it. 

I'm not trying to put myself on any sort of pedestal or beg for a thank you. A lot of people do those things I do. But Pamela reminded me, and hopefully anyone reading this, that sometimes a little pushing is necessary. I deserve certain things and need to finally start fighting for them. It's not James Murphy's face I need to be staring at. It's mine.

So to the people at the LCD Soundsystem concert last night that I pissed off,  I'm sorry, but I won't be your baby anymore. 

Father's Day by Carolyn Busa

I wrote this article at the end of last year but of course find it pretty appropriate for today.

My dad is a very serious, very tall, very quiet man. He hates Facebook and the ‘ding’ of a text message drives him crazy. If he had a catchphrase, it would be “Pfft.” It is almost impossible for him to express an opinion without a precursory “Pfft.” He speaks like he’s firing you from a job you didn’t know you had.

“Hey Dad! How was traffic getting here?”

“Pfft, it wasn’t good, Carolyn, ok? Not good.”

“I’ll collect my things.”

At any mention of our neighbor’s lawn, you’re guaranteed a complimentary eye roll. Speaking of lawns, my dad’s is perfect. In the summer, his sprinklers, perfectly timed, dance at just the right moments and in just the right places. Even in the winter, when my dog takes a piss on the slowly browning grass, he’ll make note of where, remembering to rinse it off later.

My dad worked hard my entire childhood and continues to work hard, despite his ‘semi-retirement.’ Retirement for my father means 30 hours a week instead of the 50+ he was used to. Those extra 20 hours are now spent on random day trips with my mom and taking care of our entirely too big house. If his father were still alive, he’d save a few of those hours for visits taking care of him, visits that his younger brother and sister wouldn’t make themselves for reasons I’m still not 100% sure.

My dad is a hard person to break. As a teen, I felt the need to defend his demeanor out of embarrassment for my reputation. When picking up me and my friends from the movies or mall or play practice, we were never met with a Danny Tanner “Hey girls!” Rather, a few words from my dad and me desperately trying to keep the conversation alive. I wanted my friends to know it’s ok to talk. He’s not mad!

I get my red hair from my father. His hair, despite some grey, is no doubt still very red. I love my red hair and I am proud to be a ginger girl. But, ginger boys are never represented as cool or tough. Maybe my dad has been putting up a front his whole life so that when the sun undoubtedly hit his hair, people would still take him seriously even though he looked like a beautiful, burning matchstick. I don’t know.

There’s a lot I don’t know about my dad. But, there is one thing I do know. The thing that added together with strict lawn care and stern replies makes the least sense of all: My dad fucking loves Disney World.

There’s something about Disney World that makes my dad shed his rough exterior. And believe me, it’s not just any place that serves meat on a stick. It has to be Disney. There’s no passing off Six Flags as “The Happiest Place on Earth.” To that, he’d say, “Pfft!”

When any discussion of vacation comes up, my dad never wants to go to an island or European getaway. He wants to fly the two hours to Orlando and spend his seven days in the section of Florida that I imagine is its own little world, separate from the rest of the state that keeps us on our toes.

When my dad is home, he tinkers with cars and washes his hands in the separate ‘work’ sink he installed in the basement. So, his favorite Disney hotel would surely be The Campsites at Fort Wilderness, right? Wrong. When he goes, he stays at the Grand Floridian Resort & Spa because not only does my dad love Disney, but he loves it a particular way: Luxury. This is the hotel. It’s lavish, Victorian-themed, there’s a grand piano in the lobby playing ragtime, and there’s small, detailed soap! It’s everything my father isn’t.

As for the rides, he does them all. Somewhere, there’s a VHS tape in our house with The Hall of Presidents in its entirety. That is some dedication for a notoriously boring AF attraction. The thrills don’t necessarily matter to dad. Dad’s interested in the story and history and how the waiting queue is designed, which, yes, is even documented on a video. It’s the experience before, during, and after. But, that’s not to say he doesn’t love thrills because he does. And it shows.

I may not see my dad smile often, but catch him on The Tower of Terror or Splash Mountain and all of a sudden there’s gums and grins, and I didn’t realize he had a gap in between his teeth! Some of my dad’s best photos are Disney souvenir photos.

There’s a spot in Magic Kingdom, specifically Adventureland, where each trip my dad hunts for the stand that sells his Dole Whip. The Dole Whip is a frozen pineapple ice-cream treat. It’s something to enjoy while he waits in line for Big Thunder Mountain or another go at Splash Mountain. It’s his tradition.

Thanks to our father, my sister and I are also Disney-obsessed. We can recite the script of the Monorail, we fantasize about the smell of the Grand Floridian lobby, and we can easily work each other up to emotional, teary messes by humming the music to Epcot Center’s Celebrate the Future Hand in Hand parade. I spent two of my five days in Japan exploring Tokyo Disneyland. I have nightmares where I’m given only two hours in Magic Kingdom and need to make quick and rash decisions about where to spend my time. For the record, I would do a half hour of sightseeing and then attempt both Haunted Mansion and Big Thunder Mountain. Also, for the record, I wrote and rewrote that sentence at least three times because of the anxiety that fictitious situation still gives me. My dad sure did a number on us.

When the holidays are coming up, I know I’m going to attempt a family photo. My mom will probably say something like “Please don’t post that!” and I’ll post it anyway. People might see my photo and wonder why Dad’s smile looks strained or maybe they’ll create stories in their head. I don’t care, I’ll defend him either way. But, not of embarrassment anymore. I’m no longer embarrassed about my dad being who he is. Especially when so much of him is now becoming a part of me. You see, my dad has his lawn, I have my hair. My dad says few words, I stand in corners at parties. My dad enjoys his Dole Whip tradition, I enjoy my pumpkin-spiced latte tradition. And, most importantly, my dad loves Disney World just as much as I do.

This post originally appeared on  Also, Dad's smile grows more and more every day. 


Seven Ways to Keep Your Dog Occupied While Giving/Receiving Oral Sex by Carolyn Busa

If you’re like me and have a dog with bigger anxiety issues than your own, then you know how difficult sexy time can be. Simply closing the door on Sparky is not an option. Believe me. I've tried it and it always ends in a puddle of pee outside my door. Neither sexy nor sanitary.

For me, the most challenging part as a dog owner when bringing someone home isn’t the actual sex. My dog could care less about watching me bone (Get it? Bone!). There’s nothing for him to do except fall asleep to the hypnotic, rhythmic sounds of passion. Yes, passion. But, if you’re lucky, more importantly, if your partner isn't a selfish jerk, you’ll experience hours and hours of oral sex. This is where things get tricky for you and exciting for Sparky. Oral sex is wet and sloppy. Plus, if you're doing it right, there's going to be a lot of moving and shaking and your dog is gonna want IN. So what can you do?

1)     Bring a Playmate – You already have your playmate, which is probably making your dog super jealous. Get them a friend!

2)     Lay Back and Fetch – If you’re receiving, take this opportunity on your back to tire puppy out with some fetch. Be careful it doesn’t lead to tug of war. We don’t want to disrupt!

3)     Train Your Dog to ‘Play Dead’ Using the Command ‘Oh my God, Yes!’ – Chances are you’ll be repeating this phrase a lot. Make things easy on yourself.

4)     Maintain Eye Contact – It’s no secret dogs are better behaved when you pay attention to them.  WARNING:  This has the potential to get very creepy very fast. Use sparingly and with precaution.

5)     Compliment…A LOT – Dogs want to know they’re being good little boys or girls and luckily, so does someone who has their face in your crotch. Kill two birds.

6)     Gonna Be Awhile? Peanut Butter! (Not in a weird way) – If you know it takes you a little longer to get where you want to be, buy yourself some time. Spread a healthy amount of peanut outside your room and let your pup go to town while someone goes to town on you.

7)     Sex Toys –DO NOT GIVE YOUR PERSONAL SEX TOYS TO YOUR DOG. Get your dog their very own! Well not sex toys, exactly. But a toy that you only allow them play with when it’s sexy time*. They’ll be distracted playing with their rare toy, you’ll be excited playing with yours.  

*Avoid squeaky toys. Unless that’s your thing.   

PSA by Carolyn Busa

If I'm going to get quoted in the New York Post, this is exactly what I would want to say. 

FRIENDS EXTRAS - The One with Five Steaks and an Eggplant by Carolyn Busa

At first I thought I would choose one of these goofballs:

The guy in the pink shirt for obvious mullet reasons or the guy on the payphone who I'm pretty sure is staring straight at the camera. However, when the camera turned to this other angle of Central Perk, I was taken aback by this blonde beauty: 

He is an image of classic beauty. His hair is perfect, great bone structure, and wow, what a smile.

I waited in anticipation to see who was lucky enough to sit across from him at Central Perk on this glorious day enjoying the article about...


...some sort of food contamination, maybe? Ok, so the article wasn't exciting or sexy but whomever was sitting across from him had to be a model or a sexy woman in a business suit or... elderly black woman? Wow, ok. Central Perk patrons never cease to amaze me with their diversity of friendships. Plus, she's not just quietly sipping coffee. She's giving it to him! Look at that hand!

Personally, I was seriously impressed by this pair. But, you know who wasn't?

How I Survived A Weekend In A House With An Indoor Pool As A Sexually Peaking Woman (And No One To Bang) by Carolyn Busa

Every winter my closest friends and I spend three nights away in some unknown town in PA. We spend those nights drinking, eating, laughing, and getting high on each other’s company. This year would be my third year attending and I knew it was going to be an extra special trip. Why? Because this year we would be staying in a house that included something very, very, very special — an indoor pool.

This had me a bit concerned. Not because I can’t swim. Not because I’m scared of water. But because indoor pools are super, super sexy. They’re warm. They’re inviting. They’re always whispering for you to take your clothes off. All amazing things that, in the past, none of which would concern me. But this year was different. This year I was a full blown, sexually peaking woman.

What I had previously thought was sexually peaking turned out to be merely a preview before the three-hour feature that would most likely have a sequel and another sequel split up into two parts. I remember my first winter weekend experiencing sudden urges to dance and needing to let it out. Not the best time for your friend to introduce her new boyfriend: “And the one grinding on the living room floor, yeah, that’s Carolyn.”

We had an outdoor hot tub one year which, yeah, was pretty sexy once you got past all the intense lethargy, low blood pressure and shivers after each dip. One minute we were loving life in the bubbles, sipping champagne, the next we were trembling on the floor shouting “Afghans! More afghans!” It was a scene straight out of the fictional, straight to DVD movie Hot Tubs — The Untold Story.

Plus, I didn’t realize I was in the early stages of sexually peaking on those previous trips. I thought I was just another normal, horny, single girl who got out of a long-term, unhealthy relationship. “I’m free! I’m loose! Watch out!” But time made me wiser (hornier) and I had become familiar with all the triggers of peaking. I knew I had to be careful with the addition of an indoor pool. Grinding on the dance floor might easily turn into a full-blown orgy with whipped cream and lube, at least that’s what I imagine when I think of orgies. But even more concerning, not having someone to bang — how long would I survive?

To start, I made sure to pack extra accoutrements for this special, indoor pool, maximum peaking trip. I packed two bathing suits, a sparkly skirt, and a corset just in case we wanted to play Victorian Strip Poker (not an actual thing). Costume changes are crucial to peaking. A peaking woman uses any excuse to take off her clothes and admire herself in the mirror. I needed the clothes to back it up. I also packed a game of pin the tail on the donkey which I was going to suggest we play naked.*

I felt a lot of emotions when I first entered the house even with my arsenal of supplies. Not only was the house huge, it was entirely decorated in horse paraphernalia including actual horses outside! Were they trying to kill me?! I love horses! I even host a weekly comedy show called Side Ponytail (Like us on Facebook)! Horses are sexy-ass creatures with beautiful manes of hair. I mean, come on. That is me. I wanted more than ever to lasso in a lover with the whip of my pheromone-infused ponytail. I knew I was in for a trying weekend.

I continued touring the gigantic house taking in each horse statue and giant, comfy couch but where was this pool? Was it all a lie? Was it just a giant bathtub? Before I could freak out, my friend Lizz took my hand and led me to a room. “Are you ready?” she asked. I was. She opened the door and I stood there like a golden ticket winner at Wonka’s factory. Hold your breath, make a wish, count to three. Eyes open. No, It wasn’t a chocolate river but it was the most beautiful indoor pool I ever laid eyes on. I’m getting moist just thinking about it. There were noodles and mats and a bar and twinkle lights and it was heated and it was all for us. The sexy bass of poolside music was already pumping out of the speakers. It was Peak City and I was the mayor.

So how did I survive? Well, I relied heavily on food. I even volunteered to cook. Twice. I never get satisfaction from cooking but I knew it was vital to keep my hands and brain occupied. When I wasn’t cooking, I was putting everything (edible) in my mouth — eggs, homemade pizza, lasagna, cannolis, cookies, fajitas. We even had a chip bar that ranged from cheesy to salty to puffy to crunchy to sweet to baked. There was texture and taste for all levels of arousal — even dill-pickle flavored (if you’re into that sort of thing).

My weaker moments of the weekend were definitely the times spent lounging. Lounging, if done correctly, is a time to reflect on nasty thoughts in one’s head. If done incorrectly, lounging can be dangerous and lead to cuddle puddles which could then lead to Carolyn taking her shirt and/or pants off. I tried to stay focused. I was careful not to get too close to any crotches or butts or I would for sure need to excuse myself for um, intervention. I was grateful for the movie selection of the weekend. It was my first time seeing Speed and Keanu Reeves’ dialog and facial expressions did a great job of distracting. We also found a DVD of the movie Nerve. Why anyone would have a physical DVD copy of this movie, I’ll never know but, boy oh boy, was I grateful. There was so many plot holes to think about that for a whole 90 minutes I didn’t have to think of my own holes! Relief!

Of course, there were some close calls which brings me to my favorite peaking defense mechanism — gay men. I am blessed to be best friends with some of the best gay men this world has to offer. These men have been supportive of my peak from the start and allow me to lean (and grind) on them whenever I need. If you’re lucky enough to have such a friend then you know that gay men are always peaking. Whenever I felt an urge, I ran and found one of my friends to cuddle or kiss or practice a new sex move (fully clothed of course). We even invented a wonderfully erotic pool game where you blast water into someone’s face using a pool noodle while simultaneously making moaning noises. We’re still working out the official rules. These men saved me.

I’ll never forget the weekend I was horny AF with an indoor pool and no one to bang. It was one of the most erotic weekends of my life without so much as even a finger in.** Okay, I admittedly did a lot sexting but hey, I restrained from nude selfies and that’s very brave considering the amazing floor length-mirror we had in the den.

I’ve already started imagining what our trip will be like next year. How will I cope if the peaking progresses at the same rate of our rental houses? What if next year’s house not only has an indoor pool and horses, but also has an indoor jacuzzi? Or a slide? Or one of those beds that spins? Or a swing (sex or otherwise)? Hopefully next year’s trip I’ll be bringing a bed-buddy. But if not, I’m going to have to get very creative. Travel blow-up dolls are a thing, right?

 — — 

*We never did.

**That’s a lie. I masturbated once.