In an attempt to meet the high standards of many humorless concerned parents of post-9/11 tots, classic episodes of Sesame Street have been slapped with the sort of parental advisory usually reserved for Marilyn Manson albums and Harry Potter. It’s too late for me; traumatized by a lifetime of yip-yip alien inspired nightmares, I spend my nights selling letters by the nickel from the pockets of a grimy trench coat (beneath which I wear nothing). Perhaps, however, this generation can be saved from the rampant promotion of trashcan housing accommodations and Ernie and Bert’s – ahem – “lifestyle”. Thank God we have Bratz to undo the damage.