Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category

The Parable Of The Sacred Bull

March 2, 2007

Gluttony, Groucho:29, 6006 YD

by: Sexual Deviant and Beloved Ex-Dictator: Enrico Ritzibottom Salazar

As Enrico step off tuna boat onto fine American soil he was immediately molest by strange man in rumpled suit with crazed eyes. Normally this would not bother Enrico, on contrary, he advertise for it . . . but this man was not interest in Enrico’s crotch at all, he was only interest in talk talk religion and philosophy. He ask Enrico: “Do you believe there is such thing as true religion?”

Enrico snort and repy “Isn’t pornography religion in this country?”

He told Enrico that it was not, which saddened Enrico for few moments; it was after all why Enrico had come to this country in first place. Immediately his vision of become a pope of porn melt away . . . he would have to find other way to get people to accept his ‘host’, he realize. He was only sad for moment, of course, because Enrico rarely has much to do persuading, being virile testicle squid he is.

The man pulled medallion from under his shirt and waved it before Enrico’s eyes. Enrico, in turn pull seventeen medallions from under his shirt and waved them around too, thinking ‘what strange customs these beautiful faggots have’, but was distracted from his inner monologue by man saying “This is call Sacred Cow.”

“Sacred Cow?” Enrico ask, then add: “In Enrico’s homeland that is Beatrice Arthur.”

“No no,” the man said. “Cow! See Ayche Aye Oh. Cow. It the singular version of Chaos.”

“Chaos.” repeate Enrico.

“Yes,” man said. “Chaos is natural state of universe. Aspects of chaos are order and disorder. Both are natural, so do not shun disorder as false, is true too.”

“You speak bullshit,” Enrico laughed. “Enrico like that.”

“This is not bullshit. This is truth that will set you free.”

“No.” said Enrico. “Is bullshit. But, bullshit is important.”

The man’s eyes wide in amazement. “Bullshit? Important? Is why?”

Enrico was surprise that concept of Bull hadn’t been taught to this man. What else was going to be different in this country?

“Bullshit is very important.” Enrico told man. “Bullshit should be spread far and wide. Always spread bullshit wherever you go.”

“Why?” ask man.

“Is simple. If you speak to someone and tell them truth you have made them think nothing, is true?”

“No, they think about what you say.”

“How many peoples do you know?” Enrico asked. “Most peoples, they are not all the way right in the head. Most peoples accept your information like a baby goat accepts your root. If you give them bullshit, though, the person will later find out about it, become angry, but then they will need to go look up informations themselves. They will need to use their own head gravy, instead of relying on other peoples to do their thinking for them . . . in this way bullshit is very very important. So spread bullshit everywhere, my fine friendly faggot.”

Enrico was about to leave when man call out to him: “But what if they never find out information is bullshit?”

Enrico turn back to the man. He shrug. “Fuck em. If they are that stupid, they deserve to stay that way.”

And that is how Enrico taught the silly Discordian about Sacred Bull.

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If I Told You…………

February 28, 2007

Lust, Groucho:27, 6006 YD

by: One-Eyed Thayne Magee

“if i told you..absolutely they would kill me…and no tin hat would save me”
– nikola tesla

the other night i was watching the demons crawl out of the woodwork again, which is why caulking is so damned important. if you caulk it hard enough and tight enough the demons can’t get out of the fucking walls and suck your one remaining eyeball right out of your head. anyway, one of these demons kind of oozed up to me and said, “thayne, old buddy. you do realize that your very own government killed nikola tesla right? they let him live long enough to drain his brains dry of every idea he ever had, and then they killed him.”

“and you’re next boy. you’re next. only they won’t keep you alive long enough for you to spit. because after all, what does the uncle sammy want with heated toilet paper, floating lawn chairs and seeing-eye armadillos? well okay, so they might like the tp idea, but you know damn well they’d keep it for the bigwigs and let the little fellows continue to freeze their nuts off, right? of course right.”

and i thought to myself, thayne, i thought, big brother is everywhere. and it’s just like the old lady always says “goddammit, leave your glass eye at home next time you go on a bender down at harold’s lounge or it’s just dejavu like when the cops haul you away and you kick the cop in the knee and they cuff your feet together so even if you kick open the back door of the cop car and try to hop away (again), the truth is the police can run faster than you when you’re cuffed at the ankles. and you know they’ll throw you back in the drunk tank where they don’t care what happened to your glass eye, or maybe they took it and spit on it or are saving it for their hallooween costumes, or for a trophy. yeah, that’s it a trophy eye hanging on the wall of the break room down at the jail. even if you get it back you don’t know where it’s been.”

so anyway, back to nikola tesla, the fucking genius who immigrated here from Serbia , and either knew transmigration or teleportation or else had tunnels under his house that led to his secret lab. but then one day he decided to do things much as an ordinary man would and got hit by a car while crossing the road and died in the street like a dog and the fbi came in and took all his papers and his secrets when they raided his place. but he got revenge and the last laugh because the fuckers tried to photograph tesla in his casket and the photo blurred and they were unable to make the camera focus on his face. there’s not one death picture of his face which is the way he wanted it. the question that begs here is this: what good is the last laugh if you’re dead?

the moral of this rant is listen to your old lady, but not her mother. leave your glass eye at home, never forget your ankles are cuffed and the man can run faster, caulk those cracks in the woodwork, dig your tunnels deep and don’t cross the road like everyone else, or the they’ll get you next.

your friend,
thayne

Land Of A Thousand Cocksuckers

September 26, 2005

Ajax Hamilton yawned quietly to himself as he stared lazily out of the window of the bus. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, and the bus began to pull away. The backhanded yawn was witnessed by a young woman named Janis who had decided that day to come out to her boyfriend and dump his ass. She was torn, on one hand she felt guilty for lying to Todd for so long, but on the other hand he was such an unbearable prick that there was a certain amount of malicious satisfaction she was receiving from the idea. At the same time, he was also a bit of a gorilla, so there was a hot pit in her stomach that she was trying not to think about.

He really did look like a gorilla, a shaved, bleached gorilla with bright pink skin.

It was as this realization passed through Janis’ mind that she noticed Ajax’s backhanded yawn inside the bus as it pulled off. She watched the bus pull away, belching vast clouds of exhaust, and tsked under her breath, then a hitch caught her chest and she inhaled tightly, barely opening her mouth at all as she yawned. She ended it with the word -Hum, and only then raised her hand to her mouth to cover it.

In a window across the street, two floors up, Rob sat looking out the window, talking on the phone to his girlfriend Raquel, who was talking on a pay phone in the local pizza joint, waiting to pick up their order. The first ten minutes of their conversation had consisted of how disgusted Raquel was having to use a public pay telephone since she had flushed her cell phone down the toilet at a kegger.

He leaned on the window sill, watching Janis, idly wishing she were his girlfriend instead of the one he had. She looked nice. She looked like his type. He liked the way she shifted nervously under the streetlight. He assumed she was waiting for the bus.

While he wasn’t paying attention the topic had changed to her antics with her sorority sisters. -We hadta wear our bras on the outsidesa our shirts, and -get this- cluck. Like. Chickens. Can you believe that? In front of people? I almost died, she told him, laughing loudly into the mouthpiece.

-Should’ve been like a turkey, he said quickly in the almost nonexistent pause he had learned to anticipate between stories. There was silence on the line.

-Turkey? she asked, in that tone. He could imagine what her face looked like perfectly as she said it, it was always the face she wore when she used the tone. Twisted up and awful. Todd hated his girlfriend, he realized. One word had made him realize the depth of his loathing. Wearily, he said, -Turkey? They should have made you all cluck like turkeys.

Silence.

-Turkeys? he asked. -‘Cause it’s almost Thanksgiving? Forget it . . .

-Ohhhh, I get it. Oh.

-Forget it.

-I get it. That’s not funny.

-No, it isn’t.

-Do turkeys cluck? she asked.

-Forget it.

-I think they gobble. It’s not the same, she said.

-No, it certainly is not. Good observation. Is the pizza ready yet? Did you pick up gas?

-Mm, almost. The creepy little pizza boy in here keeps staring at me. You should see his nasty red hair. I bet he has red pubes. Soooo gross. So gross. This other guy just walked in who looks like a gorilla. Nuh-asty.

At that moment Rob noticed Janis finish her yawn, down below, across the street. She looked like she was smiling as she tried to hide the yawn. He smiled back. A few seconds he interrupted Raquel with a somewhat loud yawn.

-Didoo ust . . . awn? asked Raquel awkwardly over the line, yawning herself. -Ho! she ended it.

-Yes I did, Rob answered. -Yes I did.

The seventeen year old clerk at the counter in the pizza joint had been staring at Raquel on and off for the past fifteen minutes, wondering how much of her tits was padding, how much was real, and whether she was wearing underwear under her loose baggy sweatpants. He thought constantly about yanking down a girl’s sweatpants. He was mortified that he may someday do it, he thought about it so much. He wished he was back in his room, the basement of his parents’ house he had converted into a bedroom apartment, getting high. He was SUPPOSED to be back at home getting high. He was, however, currently covering for another employee who had attempted suicide in the staff room earlier in the evening.

He wondered if the staff room would be off limits because of the police now. His fake ID was in his bag, in his locker, and so was an eighth of weed. If the room was off limits he would most certainly be, as his father liked to say, up shit creek without a paddle. Some people are so fucking self centered, he thought, watching Raquel turn her back slightly to him, and noticed there didn’t seem to be thongs marks through the sweat pants. She turned back toward him, and yawned long and slowly, making eye contact with him as she did. She quickly turned away, which he took as a sign that she was embarrassed that he caught her looking at him.

She liked him. Sweet. Pleased with himself, he yawned openly and unattractively in the face of the young man who had approached the counter. -Haughhh, MMMmmmmmm!

-Pepperoni and bacon? the young man asked.

The clerk turned, still yawning on and off, and looked at the tag on the box of pizza sitting under the red lights, attempting to stay warm. He hated this job. Hated the customers, hated the whole goddam city, land of a thousand cocksuckers. The name on the pizza box read TODD.

He turned back, and ended the grotesque yawn. -Huhh, is, uh, are you, uh. Todd?

-Mm hmm, the young man with the large pink head answered. He was getting pizza for his girlfriend Janis, who had called saying she wanted to ‘talk’, which was never good. It was usually about how he embarrassed her in front of her dykey friends by talking about how he liked his steak grilled, or complaining about the hockey strike. She was so drab. To attempt to placate her he was buying her favorite type of pizza, pepperoni and bacon. He figured it was cheaper than a pair of shoes.

Todd grabbed his pizza and walked out into the night air with it, steam billowing out the sides of the damp warped cardboard. Although delayed, he caught the yawn. He was nearing his car by the sidewalk and shook his head softly trying to clear his head, and passed the window of a bus idling nearby. Ajax Hamilton, sitting up in the window of the bus watched him absently, thinking about Billy Van and The Hilarious House Of Frightenstein, and how much better it was than an of the shitty children shows which clogged the channels these days, and as the bus pulled away he lazily yawned again, long and loud, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and mumbled to himself:

-Christ, can’t stop yawning . . .

Two Men Are Sitting In A Bar . . .

September 20, 2005

One is complaining to the other about how there are no decent acts anymore. “These acts these days, I tell ya, there’s no talent . . . prop comics, I mean Jesus Christ . . . that’s what humor has come to? Sticking a toilet seat around yer neck? And lookit these magicians these days . . . sitting in a glass box under a frozen sidewalk for a week? Where’s the magic? I just can’t do it anymore, I ain’t got the chops for this shit . . .”

The other man agreed. “I haven’t seen a decent act since the Gong Show went off the air.”

The first man looked at the other, then went on, “I really think it’s time I packed it in. You should see my office, stacks of resumes up to the ceiling, but do I want to even meet any of these yabbos, let alone SIGN any of them? Christ . . . no.”

The other man was about to console the first man when they were approached by the waitress who had been waiting on them for the last hour. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but did I hear you say you were looking for an act to sign?”

The first man said, “Well, yeah, but I don’t think there’s anything I want to see anymore . . . I got an old fashioned streak.”

The waitress smiled. “Well, hon, I might just be able to change your mind. I happen to be part of an act that is as old fashioned as vaudeville, in fact we’re a family act. Part Magic, part music, and part comedy.”

The first man sat up straighter. “Holy shit.”

The second man said, “A triple threat!”

“You bet your sweet bippy,” the waitress said. “Lemme set the scene for ya . . . Picture this . . . the stage is dark, there’s a thick, luscious, red velvet curtain, which opens slightly to reveal me and my eight year old son, I’m wearing a long gown, drenched in aquamarine sequins and cubic zirconia – real classy. And my little son is wearing a tiny tuxedo, so adorable, you should see him, just like a little prince. He’s pushing a small black box on wheels.”

The second man asked, “Kind of like a rolling suitcase?”

The waitress winked. “Exactly like a rolling suitcase, but with secrets inside.”

The first man said “I like secrets. Go on.”

“Ok,” the waitress said, and continued, “So, my little son holds onto my hand and we begin to sing a duet of Big Balls, by AC/DC-“

“Wait wait wait,” said the first man. “Just hold on for a second . . . AC/DC? I thought you said this was an old fashioned act.”

“Oh, it is,” the waitress assured him. “We both sing it very old fashioned, almost operatic. You have to understand, my little boy is only eight, so his voice hasn’t broken yet; it’s a very heartbreaking duet. It brings my mother to tears every time we sing it, and she lost her hearing over twelve years ago.”

“Jeez,” said the second man. “Must be good.”

“It gets better . . . ok, so at the end of the number my son opens the box to reveal my husband inside . . . My husband was a soldier and lost his legs in Iraq, so he will be naked and, obviously, without legs . . . which is good, because his part of the act needs everything to be fully visible, legs would only get in the way.”

The first man asked, “Why is he naked?”

The waitress winked again. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” she said. “all will be revealed. So, my son opens the box and shows his naked, legless father. I should probably also mention at this point that his father is painted like a clown. Ok, so he reveals his father, and his father walks out of the box on his hands -which always brings some applause from the audience, I might add- and parts my dress in the middle, revealing my glorious womanhood to the crowd.”

“Gee.” marveled the second man.

“Now, it’s at this point the act really gets good. My son has got vaudeville in his blood, I’m not kidding. My husband lays down on the stage, and my son stands over him, facing me, with his back to the audience. My husband rips the tear-away pants from my son, leaving him standing with no pants on. At this point I place a single ping-pong ball into my mouth, and pretend to swallow it, while my son begins to orally satisfy me.”

Both men sat in silence, listening to the waitress. “While he is orally satisfying me, my husband begins to orally satisfy our son, so you see there is a chain being formed . . . I’m sure it’s obvious where this is going.”

” . . . no.” said the first man.

“Ok, so while this is going on I begin to sing Great Balls Of Fire, while my son and husband hum the accompanying music, our dog is walking around on its hind legs in a tutu, and-“

“Wait,” said the first man. “where the hell did the dog come from?”

“Didn’t I mention our dog?” the waitress asked.

“No!” both men said in unison.

“God, no wonder my husband usually talks to the agents, I’d forget the finale if it weren’t so fabulous. Ok, so yes, there is a dog in the act too. It’s walking around while we are singing and humming. As the song begins to wrap up my son begins to wiggle around a bit, and then my husband follows suit and begins to wiggle around too, and as the song completely climaxes I break wind through my vagina, which is something you really have to hear to believe, while at the same time my son defecates on his father’s chest, and my husband releases three pool cues from his anus. One after the other. Our dog gobbles up each pool cue, and takes it over to a plate filled with flash powder and drops each one in, causing a huge flash of smoke and fire, three times in all. During the last flash, my son falls back onto his own stool, covering his father’s chest, and I fall on top of him, and the dog jumps onto my back. The force of this concussion causes all three of us to vomit at the same time, red white and blue. The dog waves a little flag of Old Glory. Huge applause. The end.”

“Jesus.” the first man said, after a long pause. “That is certainly one hell of an act.”

The waitress smiled, and said “I told ya so. Didn’t I tell ya so?”

The first man asked, “What do you call the act?”

She leaned in close to the men, and whispered, “The Sophisticates.”

Hot Meat

September 19, 2005

It was just after four in the morning. The full-on humidity had melted from drizzle into rain in the last couple minutes and, despite the fact that it wasn’t particularly hot, I was sweating like a pig. The rain tap-danced tic-tic-tac on the skin of my leather jacket.

I saw a man laying nude on his balcony, sunbathing. He had one of those mirrors propped up under his chin so his tan would be even. The sun was well on the other side of the planet, but this space cadet was none the wiser.

Probably smacked out to his eyeballs, I remember thinking.

It wasn’t until later, when I got home, that I considered the fact he might have been dead.

Modern Sisyphus, or This Is The Life

September 17, 2005

One night Quiche invited four friends over for some drinks and smoking. She invited Tab Matsui, who always worried about people and her boyfriend Don Mosher who was always worried about animals. She also invited Carmonita Scarfoni, who was always worried about life, and Toni Carboni, who was always worried about death.

Drinks were poured, spliffs were lit, and conversation ensued. Tab never took spliffs overly well and soon began to worry about the people who were being afflicted by natural disasters. “there’s nothing you can do to prevent something like that,” she said, and began to weep. Don, her boyfriend said “think about the animals though, they truly have no idea what is happening. it must all be a mystery to them. just like everything to us”

“what’s a mystery?” Quiche asked. Carmonita said, “life is a mystery. how can we know what the point is?”

Toni said, “you can’t know the point until you’ve died. it’s too profound.” Quiche began to giggle. Don turned to her, his drink splashing on the tabletop. “how can you laugh, Quiche? terrible things happen all the time. what’s so funny?” Quiche spoke through a bouquet of laughter: “everything.”

Tab asked: “you think it’s funny that we don’t know the meaning of life?”

Quiche answered, “no.”

“well then, what’s so funny?” Don asked. Quiche turned to him. She smiled. “i find it funny that you all believe there is a meaning to the universe. there isn’t.” Carmonita sat forward. “how can you dare to say that? if there isn’t a meaning then there is no point in living!”

Quiche asked, “no?” and began to giggle again. Toni sat very quietly, and finally said “Quiche is right. there is no point. if you think about it, it’s perfectly obvious. there is no meaning to life.”

Tab began to weep again. “well then what are we living for?” Don answered: “nothing.”

Carmonita’s face lit up. “we should kill ourselves!” Toni turned to Carmonita. “yes, you’re right. it’s the only logical response to an illogical universe.”

As the four prepared to kill themselves Don noticed Quiche was lighting up another joint. “what are you doing, Quiche? aren’t you going to kill yourself with us?” Quiche laughed again. “no, i have no intention of killing myself.”

Tab asked, “but why? it was you that made us realize the universe has no point.”

Quiche shrugged. “so?” was all she replied.

Don turned away from Quiche. “forget her, she’s just afraid. come on, let’s get on with it, i can’t stand this world another second.” and he, and the other three killed themselves, and fell back away from the table. Their feet stuck up in the smoky air.

Quiche sat back, gathered their weed with hers, took another haul on the spliff, and said “this is the life . . .”

Bobo

September 15, 2005

Bobo and I go waaaaay back . . . we met when we were both geeks in a travelling sideshow . . . he bit the heads off chickens, while I hypnotized my chickens first so that they would dance the watusi while I bit their heads off.

I had a bit more showmanship, but Bobo was deep,man. He showed me how the entire universe can be revealed in pencil shavings – that blew my mind.

Poor Bobo, he was never the same after Monday Moonie got through taking back his wooden legs. He tried making the best of it for a while, strapping on pool cues, but it wasn’t the same . . . the last time I saw him he was bobbing for bottle rockets at a flea circus . . . he looked lost.

I should send him a postcard.

Loop Garoo

September 7, 2005

When I first met Loop Garoo I was only thirteen years old, but had been chucking Wookers for at least four yerts. The samsonite looms at that time of the year were often running around the clock, but on the night I met Loop Garoo they were ominously silent. Like a witch had started laughing inside a blender, if you follow me.

I was chucking Wookers around the edges of glass setbeams, and grinding down Lembots, when Loop Garoo came sliding down the wall, the master of horizontal moonsets, and asked: “When you’re out of the glue and inside a tack, how do you know which way to bloom?”

Obviously, being only thirteen, I found this question obtuse.

Placing my spoodge carefully on the tick-tack tarrtarr paper, and wiping my palms on my dungarees, I answered: “Na Nana Nanana nan a nan a nan.” Sometimes, the best answer is no answer.

Loop Garoo made a face. Sort of like a stapler giving a marmoset a wet-willy, but with more gusto. That face made the whole day for me. I hooted to the sky, and hortled to the floor, while Loop Garoo cackled wildly, rolling across the walls like a stacked riggomont.

Ever since that day Loop Garoo and I have been best blorts.

The Box

August 29, 2005

I knew a boy who was born in a box.

He lived in the box. Awoke in the box. Slept in the box. Ate in the box. Read in the box. He did everything in the box, in fact he never left the box. He didn’t know how. In fact, he didn’t even know there was anything to leave the box for. He thought the box was everything.

One day, the boy heard a sound outside the box. He wondered what it could be. The boy pressed his ear to the wall of the box and listened closely. He could hear faint sounds, many sounds, sounds he had never heard before. The boy wondered what all these sounds could be. What could be on the outside of the box?

The boy began to knock at the walls of the box, but couldn’t open it. He began to bang on the walls of the box, but still could not open it. He began to tear at the walls of the box, and saw light begin to pour in. He dug harder at the tiny hole he had produced and even more light began to shine inside. The sounds became louder, and looking out through the hole he saw all sorts of shapes, colours, sizes . . . he didn’t know what to make of any of it, but wanted to see more.

The boy tore at all the walls of the box, and stood up in a swift motion, ripping the box to shreds as he did. The bits of the box fell off and began to blow away in the breeze. The boy stood in the middle of a street, huge metal cars whizzing by on both sides. The blurring sites and cacophonous sounds assaulted the boy’s eyes and ears. He covered his face, and then his the sides of his head, then his face again.

The world outside the box was too loud.

The world outside the box was too bright.

The world outside the box was too big.

The boy looked around for his home, the box, but only saw shreds of cardboard twirling in the wind. The box was gone.

Clown Wanted!

July 30, 2005


I really expected a roomful of clowns to be louder than this, I thought to myself as I shifted uncomfortably in my plastic seat. For some reason I hadn’t thought people trying out for clown jobs actually wore their outfits to the auditions, and showed up in t-shirt and jeans. I was, in fact, completely wrong.

There must have been fifty clowns crammed in the room which, believe me, wasn’t that big. The guy on my left kept turning and staring at the side of my face. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He was making me very uncomfortable. A couple of times I looked over just past him, pretending to look at something else, and he would look away but as soon as I looked back down at my feet he’d be staring at me again.

He had a tiny, tiny top hat perched at a cocky angle on his bald, white head. Two large blue tears drops dribbled out out of his right eye. The man looked ridiculous. Even by clown standards.

I mumbled this to him, to break the tension: -How many of the people in this room, do you think could fit into a Volkswagen Beetle?

He didn’t answer me at first, not until I looked over at him, even then it wasn’t truly an answer. -Did you go to Clown College? he asked me.

I kind of laughed. -No.

-Yeah, he spat, and turned away. -I somehow didn’t think so.

He turned back to me. -You really think they’re gonna hire YOU?

-Maybe, I said.

-Maybe? You don’t even dress like a clown.

-That’s my schtick, I lied, just to see if it would piss him off. It did.

He turned slowly. -That’s your schtick, eh? Huh? That’s your schtick? Man, you don’t even know what schtick means. Who ever heard of a clown that dresses like you? That’d be a pretty depressing clown. A pretty sad party, I should say . . . yeah, that’d make a lot of children pretty sad. You make me sick.

-I’m funny, ok? I countered.

He leaned over, I could smell onions on his breath. I could just imagine him eating onion sandwiches all by himself in his trailer. -It takes more than just . . . ‘funny’ to be a REAL clown.

-Yeah? I asked.

-Yeah. It takes stamina, man, OK? It takes character . . . timing. DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M SAYING? It takes heart. OK? HEART!

-Yeah, I said.

-I mean, I mean, it takes a daily commitment. A daily commitment to look in the mirror every morning and say, “Ok, no, I’m not going to be a doctor like mom wanted. I’m not going to even be a garbage man, like she begged. I am a clown. But. I am going to be the best damned clown I can be! I’m going to make Billy’s party today the best party anyone ever saw . . . does that make any sense to you?

I hadn’t been listening fully ever since he made the comment about the garbage man. -Who’s Billy? I asked.

-THERE IS NO BILLY! he screamed. -I made him up to illustrate a point, son, don’t you see that? How can you ever be a clown if you can’t even see THAT? I work my heart out, day in day out to scrape together a living as a clown and I took the time and money to get my credentials, my PhD in Clownology, and you . . . you waltz in here, no diploma, and think you can just take over. That’s what your generation is like, all of you. YOU MAKE ME WANNA PUKE!

At that moment an executive opened a door at the other end of the room. I thought he was coming in to see what the ruckus was, but instead he called out: -Baron Von Hoopla?

I stood up. -That’s me.

-BARON? bellowed the clown to my left. -Baron Von Clownsky? Yeah, that’s cute, Mac . . . that’s real GOD DAMNED CUTE!

I didn’t even try to say anything as I made my way through a roomful of clown eyes all glued to me, there was nothing to say. I just walked up the to executive, who appeared confused. Just as I passed through the door I heard the clown shout out: -You SUCK, man!

Then the door snapped shut behind me. I looked at the executive, and shrugged. That clown had a chip on his shoulder the size of a cream pie.

Hail Eris.