This sounds like a Ken Burns documentary about Civil War letters sent by idiots.
Our anuses (ani? anii?) aren't as loquacious or eloquent as Zefrank's, but there have certainly been many mornings when the anger at last night's Indian food decisions came across louder than words, and louder than the bathroom fan we turned on for privacy, for that matter. Of course, it's hard to have a quiet conversation across an entire body, and you just know that your hands and genitals are going to jump in as soon as they get a chance. Your hands have the attention span of a goldfish, constantly moving from one thing to the next and touching everything new, and your genitals, well, only think about themselves. There's only one body part we feel bad for here, and that is the poor, lonely brain, forever surrounded by idiots.