My Harlequin Curriculum Vitae (Part II)

Part II of the series... Part I was posted Nov 29

Transition from party clown to resturant clown was rocky. No longer did I have the freedom to do whatever I wanted. I had to do it their way. My name was changed from "SQUEEGIE" to "BINGO", consistent with their corporate image and national clown presence. I was just another dork in kabuki face, another sellout in floppy shoes. The parties were long and greuling and after the kids left I was a busboy and cleanup crew. Worse, I worked 8-10 hour days in grease paint, my only break being lunch. Whereas waiters and waitresses got to sit at the bar, the clown had to sit in the stinky basement, "The kids can't see the clown eat"... they'd tell me, like a harlequin's metabolism would be any different.

During their grand re-opening they wanted me to work every night, table magic, balloon animals etc. It was a killer with my school schedule and the kids were brats. I kept hearing "I can see your real hair" and "you're not a clown". The Evil Clown within me was hatching, I saw that the end of the happy SQUEEGIE/BINGO was soon at hand.

I was fired for working babes in the bar. I could make a poodle from balloons that would get a boner and also could make a guy with a giant schlong. Although I was working fantastic woozle 10 years my senior, my minimum-wage managers saw it as inappropriate and fired me.

BINGO was dead...

(continued tomorrow)

My Harlequin Curriculum Vitae (Part I)

I often am asked, "Is the clown bit real or just a facade to make you somewhat interesting?" I respond that my gaily festooned face and circus acoutrements are all real. I tested grease-paint positive years before I could drive and have for 25 years maintained a close connection to the tools of buffoonery.

I came into clowing for all of the right reasons. There are few jobs for 13 year olds, and while other kids cut grass for $3 a lawn (it was the early 80's) I reached for something more. Actually, I still cut the grass for $3 a lawm too, but after the sun would set and the clippings turned to thatch, I would adorn floppy shoes and grease paint as SQUEEGIE and head off to lead children's parties. Insert red flag here if you want to.

With a few twisted balloons and a clownsuit my mom made I could command $100 a shot for a few hours' work. I'd quote parents 100 bucks for an hour and then hang around and essentially babysit a psychotic throng of screaming kids while the folks got plastered. I still made $33.333 per hour and word spread like wildfire that a clown would come to your house and run the party. My calendar filled and I was working a few dates per month. I was making primo coin-- and my mom had to drive me there!

Next I would make the leap from freelance joker to coroporate cut-up. The Ground Round, a restaurant famous for peanuts-on-the-floor merriment hired me to run their kids parties for $10 a hour on a regular schedule... I was 15. It was the Big Time...

(continued tomorrow)

So Long Blog Suckas!

For the last 12 months it has been a pleasure to prepare my daily thoughts and submit them to this public forum. I have appreciated the frequent feedback from anonymous friends, along with the harsh email from goons and twits.

No more! Today I quit this activity as I will no longer have time to write. I am transitioning to a life of sloth and decadence, and only my help will be tinkering on computers to parlay my newfound riches into more cash to fuel my exorbitance.

Oh lucky me! It turns out that I was randomly selected by a Nigerian princess (Princess Ngo’an Tan) to receive 6 million dollars! She sent me the note via email today. See, her family invested heavily in the United States and she has a massive amount of money here in New York City. It’s all in a safety deposit box and I can go there and get it out.

I just need to get the key, and she’s going to send it to me. I just need to wire her the money for postage.

I never realized how good we had it here. We can ship a key for a buck, maybe $30 if we ship it next day via FedEx. She needs $17,000 to get it here. Poor thing.

So I took out cash advances and did a home equity loan. Boy, will my wife be surprised! That key should be here any day now….

My Dog Hates Squirrels

Trapped inside on a winter day, Xeenah reacts to taunting by squirrels.

One Good Holiday

Many consider Thanksgiving as a time for family and a time to gather together. Mrs. Schmootzie and I use this day to hide like dust mites in Dom Deluise's beard. We sequester ourselves at home, turn out the lights, lock the doors, turn off the phone ringer and cook food.

We also don't like to think of it as "Thanksgiving". We combine Halloween and Thanksgiving in to "Thanksween". We might walk around our neighborhood and collect leftovers, which we freeze to eat the rest of the year. Kick ass. Otherwise, we'll have the usual ToFurky... ToFurky is Faux Turkey as it is said. I'm going to fabricate gravy from vegetable squeezins.

The nice part is, while Christmas and the rest involve running ourselves ragged to see everyone, this holiday is for us. We're thankful for each other, our careers and our damn dog everyday. This is just a day to celebrate being together and eating good food.

I'm only going to work for two hours today.

Happy Thanksween.

A Thanksgiving "Upper Decker"

Schmootzie has two sisters, both younger, and both accustomed to having their way. It was greuling growing up as the enlightened big brother, always having to submit to the whimsy of misguided siblings. Their antics were embraced, their shortcomings excused, and their revelry in mediocrity was endorsed with great fanfare.

Now they are disfunctional adults, 38 and 26, both living under the financial care of a parental safety net. They are hardly autonomous, free-swimming parasites like Schmootzie.

One of them decided to leave the country for Thanksgiving and told the family to watch her semi-retarded dogs. No problem, except for the fact that she lives a zillion miles away from everyone. The last thing my mom, dad or sister needs is to work all day and then drive to BFE to let my sister's dogs out to crap.

Still, my older sister went to the younger sister's house to let out the dogs. She called me in disgust, "You would not believe what a mess this place is, she's horrible to make me do this".

Being a good big brother, I offered my suggestion to extract some sense of revenge-- leave an "upper decker".

For those of you that do not share my toilet vernacular, an upper decker is defined as the act of depositing one's bodily waste into the upper tank of a toilet. Upon flushing it will stream into the bowl, usually ripe and foul with age.

I'm not sure, but I think my older sister might have pinched a deuce into the upper deck.

When younger sis returns from distant lands she will return to a stinky bathroom, and upon a familiar flush will unleash the fermented effluvia of a raunchy colonic discharge.

She'll probably point a finger at her clown brother. However, he lives 1000 miles away and is not capable of such feats. The terror should keep her awake at night. It will be an important day, the day that a mysterious event captivates her thoughts and haunts her existence. It will make her a better person, I'm not sure how, but I think it might.

As Seen on TV

The bright-red label screams at you from the store shelf, yet what it screams depends on the listener. To me the "AS SEEN ON TV" label indicates a basis for immediate rejection without further examination of content. To others, like Mrs. Schmootzie, it is time to invest.

Case in point, we were in Bed Bath and Beyond (insert gay clown joke here) and she suggested I but the Titanium Turbo razor. She knows my anguish. A good pancake makeup, base even of the best Ben Nye stuff, requires a cleanshaven base for optimal application. She's seen me agonize over dull blades and sloppy application.

I saw the red "As Seen on TV" sticker and suggested it to be crap. She bought it anyway. Time would show that is was crap. You can mow a lawn of thick angry bristles with a cheap Barbie motor powered by enough batteries to power a keychain flashlight? It just don't work.

What do people think? "Well, I saw it on television so it must be good, because everything on TV is of such exceptional quality..."

My feeling, if you have to use the critically bankrupt medium of television to promote a product, chances are it is a piece of shit. In fact, I tend to buy things that are not advertized. If it takes a 30 minute infomercial or hard-sell to tell you how good it is, it likely is junk.

IDiot in the White House

Now it all comes together. The people that support a magical ID interpretation of the orgins of life are typically Bush supporters. It makes sense, for his administration has used belief over evidence from the beginning. Why use facts, why even investigate them? They aleady know the answers, shut up and drink the Kool-Aid. Look at recent Presidential history and you'll see the repeated prioritization of belief over evidence and faith over fact.

The Election of 2000 -- Sure, Bush probably won Florida, but when allegations of fraud are thick, shouldn't we at least check? The Supreme Court, Secretary of State and pundits everywhere celebrated the belief that Bush won and rushed to certify it-- without all of the evidence. Rather than count the votes in a fair and unbiased manner, the entire thing was chalked up as a win for GWB. We'll never know the truth.

War with Iraq -- The War Against Terrorism (T.W.A.T.) was predicated on the belief that there were weapons targeted at US interests. It was the belief that brought Colin Powell to the UN on Feb 5, 2002, showing pictures of "chemical depots" and "weapons facilities". It was the belief in secret terrorists that caused our president to lie about acquisition of uranium from Niger by terrorist groups in the State of the Union. I could go on for an hour here, but again, evidence was overlooked for reactionary belief in something that didn't really exist.

Stem cell reserach-- They believe that the cells in the dish are a person. They don't know the details, they are too stupid to understand the science and would rather the cells die than be used for research.

However, the faith vs. knowledge barrier takes a 180 when it comes to Supreme Court nominees. Give me a break. Supporters of Roberts, Alito and Meiers know EXACTLY how they'll vote on critical issues. Here faith and belief are no longer good enough. They don't want to believe that a seasoned judge will interpret the Constitution within the framework of law and precedent... they want to KNOW how that judge will vote and they DEMAND that the judge KNOW how he/she will vote on issues that have not yet been challenged.

Yes, belief and faith are comfortable happy thoughts, until they are no longer convenient or don't fit your evil plan for your police state and world domination.

Let's Name a Baby Panda!

I'm totally pissed off at myself. When I was in San Diego in October I visited the world-renowned San Diego Zoo, aptly named for it's geographical locale. I stood in line for 45 minutes to walk by the pandas, giant Chinese raccoons with thumbs. BFD.

The buzz of the crowd was that there was a baby panda there and it needed a name. A volunteer was asking kids what the name should be and they'd offer their idea into the microphone, "Ting Ting"..."Wan wan"... "Ping Ling"... "Sing Lu"...

The progression of made up Chinese names went on and on, but every once in awhile some drunk idiot in the back of the crowd (that will remain nameless) would blurt out "STEVE!".... "DORKWEED"... "SATAN!"... "RON JEREMY"...

Right after they politely asked me to leave, I vowed to name that damn critter by saturating the on-line voting system with a barrage of demands for a stooopid name offered by readers of the New World Odor.

Unfortunately, I forgot all about it and they named it Su Lin last Friday. What a bite in the bag. Some dumb kid in Macon GA got a free panda t-shirt.

I would like a free panda t-shirt too. Somewhere on this planet they are shipping a crate with a male panda really far so that it can tap some melanoleucious ass and make a new baby panda. Swimming in the epididymus, in the scrotum of a panda, in that crate destined for San Diego, there's a panda sperm with the name "Fuckface" on it. Okay, how about "Poon Tang"? Okay, at least "George Bush".

The comments forum is open for suggestions.

More for the IDiots

Every regular visitor to NWO knows that I am a voracious defender of the scientific method and objective examiner of evidence with open-minded interpretations. As such, I reject the cruel and damaging penetrance of "intelligent design", a pseudo-scientific remedy to allay the fears of the religious that their faith may in fact be quite baseless.

Still, they argue that "the origin of life is so complex it must have been created, your evidence means nothing and stop looking".

I challenge all that accept ID as a theory to also reject all other science that stems from evidence and hypothesis testing and simply rely on God. No more science for you! You cannot reject evidence of evolution that arose from the same scientific strategies that brought us cancer therapy and modern medicine, can you? If it all stems from the same corrupt base of academic research, isn't it all suspect and attributable to a magical plan? Certainly we don't know all of the ins-and-outs of cancer, so it must have been created by God and we shouldn't question it, let alone treat it. After all, it was in His design! Right?

This is the beauty of objective scientific inquiry that departs from faith and belief-- it works just as well going backwards as it does going forwards. If you say science is wrong, then please don't use it when it is convenient. Go pray instead. Don't accept the medicines and treatments science made for you. Certainly our understanding of molecular evolution even shapes drug design.

You best think hard when you want to fight science. You might need it someday.

Great Bands Quit

Let's talk about rock and roll. Back in the late 80's I was a huge fan of Jane's Addiction. What's not to like? In 1991 they elevated to legendary status because they quit, and did so at the top of their game. Real legends, real artists accomplish their goal and go away. Sometimes they do something else, sometimes they just die, or better yet, kill themselves. Legends are born.

Fast forward to 2005 when the damn Rolling Stones are still getting through the songs that made them famous in the 60's. They are so old they should be saying, "Hey (hey) you (you) get offa my lawn". I remember their final-last-goodbye-forever-never-play-again tour of 1985. That show was historical, never to be repeated and a $50 ticket.

Now people are paying $400 a ticket to see some rehashed crap from bands that should have stopped years ago.

Worse, what is the deal with bands touring with three, two or one original member? The Temptations recently played in St. Augustine but few people showed up because the Temptations were also playing in St. Augustine. Yes, two bands, neither with any original members pimping a name to attract a few nostalgia whores.

Just as evil, in Chicago the Dead Kennedys anchored a music festival. However, frontman Jello Biafra has nothing to do with the act! You may know Jello as a concerned citizen, activist and societal critic. He WAS the Dead Kennedys, he wrote the lyrics, he was their brain and voice! Now the other three guys tour and play to packed houses of people that were not even born when DK first made presented their important messages.

If there ever was a time that we needed Jello and the Dead Kennedys it is now. You may opt to review their old lyrics or read anything on Jello Biafra.

And what the fuck is the deal with Lynard Skynard? They were great because they died! I thought that they were legends because of tragedy. Now others tour, play their songs, and harvest more cash than the original band ever could.

NEW RULES: When these bands play with non-original members they need to put an asterisk on the name for each member replaced, e.g. the Dead Kennedys*, The Temptations****, and Lynard Skynard***************. Let's have some truth in advertising and let's also be grateful that Bon Scott OD'd, Bonzo Bonham choked on his own puke and Curt Cobain blew his brains out. There's some real rock stars for you.

Dover, PA- God Hates You!

Recently the people of Dover, PA voted out the school board members that tried to teach our kids crap in the place of science. More precisely, they voted out the members that strove to subvert the teaching of the scientific method, permitting "intelligent design" as a scientific model describing the origins of life. Wisely, voters realized how important it is to keep facts and beliefs as separate entities, and not teach myth, legend and fable as empirical evidence.

Yesterday Pat Robertson, the famous foot-in-mouth, corrupt leader of the 700 Club and the Christian Coalition, expressed his opinions. He said, "I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: If there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God. You just rejected him from your city... If they have future problems in Dover, I recommend they call on Charles Darwin. Maybe he can help them."

Well Pat, I think we need to take your thoughts just a little bit farther:

Nobody ever flew a jetliner into a skyscraper in the name of Charles Darwin.

Nobody ever killed a physician rendering medical aid to women to satisfy Charles Darwin.

A president never invaded another country, killing 2051 brave American soldiers, because of an edict from Charles Darwin.

Nobody ever threatened the life of someone for not believing in Charles Darwin.

Millions of Muslims were never slain in Crusades ignited by a belief in Charles Darwin.

"Heretics" were never tortured and killed because church felt their actions were inconsistent with the teaching of Charles Darwin.

The Spanish Inquisition didn't use their love of Charles Darwin to pour boiling oil into the mouths of those who criticized the church.

Catholics and Protestants in Ireland never killed each other over their interpretations of evolution.

Charles Darwin never created a storm, he doesn't let children die every day from preventable disease. Darwin doesn't let people suffer, influence leaders into genocide. Nobody has ever used coercion of satisfying Darwin to get into an alter boy's underoos, and then used money donated to the House of Darwin to wiggle out of it.

You get the point. Perhaps if we all started to read the teachings of Darwin and hold the scholarly, objective, pursuit of hypothesis-driven science as sacred we could faster distill fact from belief and physical constants from myths. Most of all, we would not have to endure the endless hypocrisy of Robertson and the other evangelicals that claim to have all the answers, passed along from an invisible man in the sky.

So Dover PA, God and his followers hate you. However, you'll find a throng of supporters out here that recognize your actions and commend you on a wise decision. Your children will be the next generation of doctors and scientists while the Kansas kids will mature into God-fearing twits that preach to you about what a moron you are through the drive-thru speaker.

If disaster or misfortune ever hits Dover, pray to God. Then email Schmootzie. See who shows up first and does what is right to help a person in need.

Billard Crow Day

This was originally posted one year ago today, on 11-11-2004

It is the 94th anniversary of his birth. I was in 5th grade and we had to come up with a story for class. I created a local fable that would become the cornerstone of legend amongst a small group of weirdoes.

As the story goes, a house burned down in the outskirts of Downers Grove, Illinois. The date was November 11, 1911. On that fateful day a family of 13 would perish in the flames, either as a direct consequence of the fire or from trying to rescue family members. It was a grizzly tale for a kid to spin, but my prepubescent brain preferred evil human stories to those conceived by other kids. I didn’t give a crap about super heroes and stuff. I liked the drama uncased in human suffering and triumph.

The downer story had a silver lining. A baby born that day was somehow tossed from the flame and landed in an adjacent thicket. The accompanying poem (Yes, multimedia. Today I would have been institutionalized or at least heavily drugged) went something like this:


Billard Crow Day, by Kevin F., Miss Yates' Class

It was November 11 on the far side of town,

Thirteen lives perished, house burnt to the ground,

Except for the baby, newborn and cast from the flames,

Lay crying in the weeds, Billard is his name,

A flock of black birds gathers ‘round the young child,

Born of the womb… to be raised in the wild.

There was some weird part about birds eating his placenta, but my teacher made me take that out. I don’t even think most kids know what a placenta is.

The story became local legend among us kids. We all waited for 11-11 and at 11:11:11pm something would always go weird. It was possible that weird stuff always happened around us and that we only stopped being idiots enough to notice it because of that moment.

There always was something not right happening. The lights would go out, there would be an explosion—always something not quite right. According to lore, mishaps and evildoings are the work of Billard Crow. We’re 7 years away from his 100 birthday. I might stay inside that night.

Evil Wretched Guitar of Doom

Recently I wrote about a friend's daughter that plays guitar and how I loaned her a killer instrument to practice with. She found it inspirational and plays it all the time.

Last night I spoke to my friend John, and he shared another guitar story-- the story of his new, yet cursed, axe. I was laughing so hard that I don't think I can remember it, but here goes...

He was telling me about his newest old guitar. It is a vintage 1970's Fender Stratocaster. It came to him from a woman who received it from her brother's estate. Her brother was a cocaine dealer that took possession of the early-70's Stratocaster as collateral, when the owner of the guitar decided to overdose and die. Her coke-dealing brother decided to over-snort a bit and explode his own heart, leaving him deceased and the guitar without a home. She stored the guitar in her house.

A representative of a local fire department shows up at a school for the developmentally disabled to give a presentation on fire safety. The woman that holds the guitar has a son. Her son was in the class. Her son has severe Down's Syndrome and the wealth of extra genetic material is balanced by his lack of cognitive tools. A sample garbage can fire and subsequent extinguishing was so inspiring that he emulated the experiment on his own at home and only got the first half right. The entire house burned, including the guitar.

Let's think about silver linings. First, a severely retarded child reached an important developmental milestone and was able to manipulate, and successfully use matches. This is no easy feat, surpassing shoe tying and button fastening, so kudos to the mongoloid. Even a thalidomide flipper baby can squeeze the handle on a fire extinguisher, so accolades to her son who scored "all tens" on the dexteritous and complex behavior he witnessed.

The other silver lining is that the guitar maintained its general form. Although burnt and bubbly and in need of new electronics and pickups, the gutiar suffered only from heat damage and was restored to functional. John now has it and plays it all the time. He has not restored the burned, bubbled finish, allowing it to serve as an homage to the string of dead cocaine addicts that brought it to him. The obvious defect also is a metaphor for that trisomic 21st chromosome-- it brings with it the good and bad; a kind gentle heart & demeanor with a big head & short lifespan; an awful fire with a free guitar.

Now the guitar of doom sits with John. I hope it serves him well, because I may be next on the list...

Happy Birthday NWO

Exactly one year ago today I started to add content to an empty weblog. I did not think I'd keep it going, it seemed completely unlikely that I'd parition the time to the effort.

One year later, I am glad that I did it. So much has changed.

I started it a few days after the election. Today we're in the midst of an accelleration of the Bush royal reign. The troops are still in Iraq and I'm a little more crusty.

Happy Birthday to New World Odor. Over the next few weeks I'll post a few of my favorite entries of Year 1, so check back soon.

Schmootzie.

Crazy Guitar Uncle

Mrs. Schmootzie and I chose not to reproduce. Our ambitious career aspirations and selfish 18-hour workdays are intese and barely condusive to animal or plant husbandry, so taking on a human critter is not a wise idea. However, both of us maintain talents and notable information that should be passed to future generations.

We have friends that have a pair of kids and they are geniuses. They speak many languages and display proficiency on multiple musical instruments. They freak out when they don't get 100% on school assignments.

On the outset, these seem like the dorks I'd be holding over a toilet administering a swirlie. However, they are amazingly aware of news, reality and life. If I had reproduced I would have liked offspring like them, so I decided that they would adopt me as an information and tool conduit.

Tanya plays guitar, she's 15 or so and pretty good. Her guitar teacher gives her grief for "being too creative" and "playing outside the box". Ugh. I grew up one of the most unique (yet unsoughtafter) guitar players because I could make a guitar sound like it is vomiting musical fury. It is my gift. Stifling Tanya's musical development was the goal of her stinky, birkenstock-wearing, guitar teacher. I decided that I should make an intervention.

I brandished an axe from my collection of 1978 Ibanez Concert Series guitars. The CN100, CN200 and the CN250 were manufactured for only a year. They have solid mahogony bodies and maple tops, coupled to proprietary "Super 80" pickups. They were made for about a year and discontinued, primarily because they were too angry and chunky for the pussified disco era.

I've played hundreds of guitars. Les Paul, all Fender, many customs. You can't beat the searing hot evil and crunchy angst harnessed within the spurned one-year production CN series guitars. They scream out of the case, play like a dream and a plink of a string hits you with a wall of sound like a sledge hammer in the chest.

I told Tanya that she could use my guitar as long as she liked to. Now her 2004 Indonesian-made Fender knockoff sits dusty in an appropriate undisturbed place while she exploits the inherent thickness of an solid guitar conceived 12 years before she was. While her peers in a wealthy town play Blink182 on new shiny Gibsons and Fenders, the guitar I loaned her will always sound better and augment her developing, original talents and style. Angus would be proud.

Her mom says that she plays all the time and thinks it is the best guitar ever. I look on Ebay because I want to buy her one to keep. Maybe I'll just give her mine. It is rare to find a kid that looks at something old and can see the value past 28 years of scratches and booze stains, and I am touched by the fact that a 15 year old is wise enough to appreciate something that most do not. She doesn't give a shit about Nintendo, designer sneakers or Beyonce, she wants to be the smartest kid in the class and then make their goddamn ears bleed.

Just like me.

How cool it is to be the crazy guitar uncle, the guy that has permanently raised the bar on what she considers acceptable instrumentation. I also bought her a copy of NOFX, "War on Errorism" and she thinks that's great too. Mission accomplished.

I finally have some hope for the future.

Go Ahead, Flip Me Off....

Yesterday I was driving down Interstate 75 between Ocala and Wildwood in the left lane, in a 70 mph lane going 85 mph. Some dillhole approaches behind me, clearly going 100 mph+ . He's flashing his lights, honking his horn, riding inches off my bumper and there's nowhere for me to go. I finally get to merge right at which time he blows by me and flips me off. What an asshole.

Ten minutes later I am the only car in hundreds that takes the time to stop on scene at a fresh wreck. Time would reveal that a fast-moving car has liberated itself from the pavement and found residence upside down in an adjacent thicket. A slight plume of smoke indicates danger and I get out of my car and grab a fire extinguisher to perform a daring rescue.

As I venture into the wet weeds I see that it is the dickhead that rode on my ass and so kindly flipped me off. He was half way out of his car, conscious, and excited to realize assistance. He's wearing a black turtleneck with a gold chain and a crucifix on the outside. He has a Justin Timberlake haircut and is pinned in and in agony. As I got closer the engine flamed up and I could feel the heat. I reached to the victim, him screaming "thank god, thank Jesus". I reached into the car, beneath the mangled dashboard and with all of my might pried hard to loosen a pack of cigarettes stuck beneath his big stupid feet. I took out a smoke, threw the rest of the pack at his fucking face and lit the cigarette on his burning engine.

I smoked that cigarette on the hood of my truck and watched the flames consume that asshole and the high-powered vehicle that transported him to his demise. The best part is, I was in full clown regalia. The second best part is, I don't smoke. When I drew it down to a filter I flicked the butt into the raging inferno. Done. Smelled like chicken.

Although I don't believe in God, magic, or karma, I do possess an anchored trust in survival of the fittest and elimination of assholes. Darwin was right. Misgivings generally await those that don't know how to behave themselves. That piece of shit won't spread his defective genes to another generation of assholes and I won't have to put up with them.

Fuck me?

No pal, fuck you.

More Ponderings...

Yesterday I donated blood. Made a mess of the Salvation Army box.

You never hear of someone getting in a wreck and becomming a tripapalegic.

I'm not drinking bottled water. Its all over the news, there's a deadly strain of Evian Flu.

In football, are the "special teams" the retarded players?

Why don't they make "bagel holes"?

If you used Monostat 365 you'd never get a yeast infection in the first place.

I'd like to find the guy that named the band "Dead Kennedys" and get him to pick my lotto numbers.

Irony Abounds

In talking with X24 yesterday we discussed the dilema of Tom Delay. Isn't it funny how the people that want the ten commandments posted in every courtroom can't seem to live by them? Lying, killing, stealing, etc., they all are part of the Bush inner circle and World Domination Plan™ . "Thou shalt not _________" bears that asterisk of "does not apply to Republicans".

In fairness, I was calling for Clinton's resignation when he took the time to lie to may face via the television. Once again, it takes a clown to bear the consistency. Bush lied to my face, got 2000 brave volunteers killed and spent $300 billion to do it and the numbers only go up from there. The Clinton lies and the Bush lies are nowhere near comparable, yet somehow the holier-than-thou ethics police want Slick Willy impeached and convicted, but stupid George gets a pass, Delay gets a pass, Cheney, Scooter and Rove get a pass too.

We should shitcan the Bush klan, both the Clintons, Ted Kennedy and all the other criminal lying scumbags. However, there's a special place in hell for those bastards that claim to have some sacred connection to Jesus, a pipeline to God that tells them to impose their wretched morality on all of us.

Perhaps if they led by example we would find their faith more palatable, maybe we might even follow their lead. But while the crooks skate unpunished for blantant violations of unquestionable rules and Joe Six Pack goes to prison for a joint or bad tax math, the clear delineation between the teflon coated and the dumbshits that vote for them widens.

Bird Flu Prediction

Experts and eggheads suggest that the bird flu hysteria is truly unfounded. Ask a microbiologist or epidemiologist and they'll tell you, your chances of contracting bird flu in the USA are about par with being hit by lightning while you are being attacked by a shark.

Why then, has our president allocated 7 billion of our dollars to prepare for it? He's always been a pal to the pharmeceutical companies, and maybe it is a way to throw them a bone. Maybe there's something more notorious.... Could we be manufacturing the agent to thin brown-tinted peoples and evil doers from the planet?

When our brainless president can accurately predict medical outcomes long before the WHO or CDC can, maybe we better look carefully at the chicken and the egg in the bird flu equation.

More Gacy Halloween Memories

My last post discussed Halloween 1976, when I apparently and unknowingly trick-or-treated serial killer John Wayne Gacy's house. If you missed it, read it first.

My wife didn't believe the story. Somehow she never heard it before and thought I was fabricating some sensationalism for the New World Odor. I decided that I would confirm the story by contacting someone that was there, my mother. We called Downers Grove, Illinois only to find the story was even creepier than my memory served me.

Here's my mom's account. My mother disputes my claim that it was the wrong side of the street. She says that she was on the north side of Summerdale with my sister and her friends Stephanie and Danielle, and that I was on the other side (Gacy's side) with my friend Robert and his sister Tina. She said that we came screaming across the street because of the blood and the fact that the guy yelled at us only after we declined his invitation to go inside.

She originally thought it was some halloween thing, that the people in the house were just having fun with some kids. Afterall, nobody dangerous lived in our happy, crime-free northwest Chicago neighborhood. We must have just been the victims of a halloween prank, or in the worst case bothered someone sick.

The details are sketchy between all parties because we were kids and childhood memories are somewhat transient. Plus, we didn't know it was Gacy for another year; it was just some creepy guy in a scary house, not too out of place on Halloween. It only got weird in retrospect.

My mom remembers the event well and paints a much more frightful experience than I remember. However, I believe her interpretations. We haven't talked about it in 25 years at least. She remembers a lot more about his house and the people that she'd see working there. It was a chilling way to cap a night of giving kids candy.

This experience makes for one of the better Halloween stories out there, as it has a substantial basis in reality.