Whoopee-do

Whoopee-do, man. Congrats! That basically just described an Iguana.

“Yeah, but what's the big whoopee-do about that?”

Warming up with a Streak for God, they hit every Sunday service possible, from Bob Condum's evangelical whoopee-do (nailed by a girl with beautiful waist-length strawberry hair who galloped through the noxious tent just as two dozen of Bob's peroxide blond minrobed Saviourettes were garnisheeing the weekly paychecks of a hundred destitute Pueblo natives), to the Episcopal church, where Father Dagwood Whipple was so flustered by the bearded grasshopper thundering through his service rattling a tambourine that he tripped on his robe, tumbled against the lectern, opening a thirteen-stitch forehead gash, and dropped his twelve-pound Bible into the front pew, squarely atop a wealthy parish benefactor's purple noggin.