"Look At The Size Of This Clown's Feet " or "Little Dogs, Liquor, Sauerkraut and Conjoined Wimmen."

  • "Sink Deep Yer Stakes Boys."

Sunday, July 3, 2005

A History of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (Macy's=Assholes)

Or: 40 Acres and a Mule

Chuck Wolf ABC News
1934: Cartoon Stars Get Balloon Makeovers

By the mid-1930s, nearly every cartoon star was getting balloonified. Walt Disney personally oversaw the building of a 40-foot Mickey Mouse. Donald Duck came a year later, with Popeye soon to follow.

In a sure sign that Hollywood had acknowledged the marketing potential of the parade, the Tin Man appeared as a 70-foot balloon in 1939, while "The Wizard of Oz" was still in theaters.

The same balloon used for the Tin Man was repainted in a green and yellow suit, turning him into "Laffo the Clown."

What? Where's my fuckin' check you Carpetbaggers?

Monday, June 27, 2005

Her Ass Looked Like A Broken Can Of Biscuits (Part One)

Okay, so it happened. I haven’t written in a while cause I’ve been in trouble.

“Trouble?” the crowd gasps, “How could the Saintly Reverend Uncle Laffo get in trouble?”

Well I did. And man, did I step in it with both size 38 “Pennington and Walters Deluxe Comfort Stride Two-Tone Clown Shoes for Men.” I went a fell for a woman. Now ole Laffo, being the Lothario he is, has been married three times. This is not a statistic I’m proud of, it’s just an indication that I might be, let’s say, a tad…impulsive. Mickey Rooney, that fag with the beard from The Beach Boys and myself have the same problem, lotsa Ex-Wives. Las Vegas with it’s, get married by a Paul Lynne impersonator speaks directly to me.

Fuckin’ Las Vegas.

Nothing good has ever happened in that town. I wish I had a massive “Dope and Gambling Problem.” I would have more money leaving Vegas if I suffered from that, than the “Let’s Get Married Before I Shit My Pants I’m So Drunk Problem” that I do have. All three of my Xs were purchased in ole’ Sin City. The fuckin’ bitch of it all is, the city is but a pale substitute of what it used to be.

Las Vegas used to be the armpit to Times Square’s butthole but both places have gotten a dose of “Whitey Tighty Family Adventure – Fun for all Ages” and it’s leaving scumbags like me in the dust. Hunter S. Thompson didn’t kill hisself, he just realized that he was slated for a systematic homogenization, like the rest of cesspools of America, and he couldn’t bear it. Charles Bukowski didn’t die; he just couldn’t live with the fact that the ‘84 Olympics coming to Los Angles had De -Tom Waitsed the City of Angels to the point where go-go sports cars and silicone where all there was. Lowlife pieces of shit need lowlife shitholes to flourish. That is where the real art comes from. For every pious, goody goody, squeaky, chaste, sober, vegetarian, politically correct, tofu spewing cunt, writing existential poetry about the plight of un-neutered felines, I’ll show you one junky eighteen year old who runs the Tilt-A-Whirl TM who’s scrawlings of decapitations of Hookers, and Battle Axes in the hands of over muscled homo erotic Vikings in a five themed notebook, are more valid and real. It’s because it’s not fucking simple and pretty. I’m a Goddamn beautiful man, but I do have the occasional pimple on my ass.

Anyhoo, that being said… I continue to frequent Las Vegas, at my own peril. It ALWAYS bites me in the ass. I should join a fuckin’ 12 step program just to keep me away that place. I guess, even in it’s sanitized form, the combination of $4.00 Prime Rib, Excessive Neon, Free Harvey Wallbangers, Pumped in Oxygen, Garish Carpet and Cheap Floozy still is like the sirens call. Sure the Steaks are a little better and the Hotels a little less seedy but the Women are still hungry and desperate, and that’s the rub. A Woman in need will have Laffo indeed.

The first wife was a professional. No I don’t mean she was a hooker, tho she was a whore, no she was a professional card counter. She would go to the Sands and sit at the blackjack tables and count cards coming outta the chute and bet accordingly. Now this is a hard method of cheating for the Casino to spot, cause it’s all in yer head and not up yer sleeve. They have to wait fer you to fuck up. And let me tell you, you will fuck up. These guys have a hard on the size of the U.S.S. Saratoga for cheats. They live to bust ya. They were the Math Fags in grammar school who got their chops busted on the playground for being a “Poindexter” and now they’re ready for revenge. Now I married a cheat. A Professional Cheat. She Professionally and Systematically fucked all my friends, neighbors and co-workers. She left no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored, no opportunity wasted, no mayonnaise left in the jar, no hair in the drain, no change in the sofa…If it had a dick and a pulse, and was in anyway familiar with me, she stuck it in her lady vent. If she had as many dicks stickin’ outta her as she had stuck in her she’d look like a goddamn pincushion. She was a looker tho. She was like a vintage automobile, lotsta chrome and big round fenders, with a wide back seat and a bumper that looked like a battleship. She looked like women looked forty years ago. She was big, blowsy, firm and painted up, like one of the Andrews Sisters who gave a great hummer. Man, could that woman do the deed. She gave a blowjob that made the fingerprints on the soles of yer feet hurt. I guess a woman like that can’t keep it to her self. She should be shared with everyone, a talent like that can’t be wasted on one man. BULLSHIT. I turned her in to the Las Vegas P.D. for nine out standing warrants and she’s doing 12 to 15 for fraud and theft by taking at Southern Nevada Women's Correctional Center. There is no honor among thieves. Adios Muchacha Uno.

Now having learned my lesson, I decided I should stick with women in the business. That is, to only date Circus Women. Now this course of action is in itself inherently risky, as Sideshow women already are damaged or saddled with a myriad of issues that would make Valentino swoon. These little stumbling blocks can’t stop me as I’m a Grade A Jackass and need a double major in Geology and Anatomy just to find my ass from a hole in the ground. But there is no finer piece of ass than what I refer to as “Circus Cooze.”

Oh, dear God the sublime pleasure and bo-kay of a woman who’s halfway through with a season’s stand in the fair Midwest. She’s bronzed by the American Midway Sun and Plump with the Nutrition of a Thousand Funnel Cakes. Perfumed by the Damp Bed Rolls of her Wagon and Dusted by the Clouds of Elephant Shit 10,000 feet stir up. Ah yes, she is an American Combined Show Jewel. The rivulets of sweat make clean trails on her skin, like she had just wept hard, dishonest work. In her outta show sundress, bleached by the sun after being hung up on one too many light lines, she stands against the cornfields looking at the rising sun, and you can see the outline of her legs, mons venus and magnificent ass, through the faded gingham. You know you’re gonna marry that contortionist, even if it kills you. And you know it almost did.

Sunday, May 8, 2005

Smallpox and the Booger Box.

So I go to get paid for medical tests, you know to pay the rent this month, and boy do they got it goin' on. I had no idea that this would entail me being nekkid, in the dark, and not allowed to sleep for 48 fuckin' hours. Well it did, and they had me do these tests where I had to put one size nut, as in nuts and bolts nuts, in one jar and another size in a different jar. Made me wonder exactly what they felt my ability level was.

Made me remember a story where I once worked at a home for "Disabled Adults," read retarded here, called Hazy Acres and there was a factory down the street that made fasteners. Now when a shift ended they would sweep up everything that hit the floor and the "Disabled Adults" would sort 'em out and fro them in different 55-gallon drums. 9/16th nuts here, cotter pins there, 2 inch bolts in this, you get it... Now remember these keeps 'em quiet, and those boys and girls riled up, is hell. A four foot 280 lb. Lady Tard is as strong as a Silver Back Gorilla. I once saw this gal named "Prissy," no shit her name was Prissy, throw this giant fucker I worked with through a wall. Prissy was anything but prissy, she could be sweet, don't get me wrong, but most the time she was tearin' phone books in half. She had a cigar box that she carried around with her that no one could touch and this is where the story starts. I call it "The Booger Box Event."

I worked at Hazy Acres as a stop gap outta prison. I was waiting for my reinstatement in the Oddfellows Local so I could legally clown again, and I needed a job. Most folks don't wanna do a job that consists of takin' care of folks who are too much for their families to handle, that's where cons come in. I had wards who were homicidal, schizo, just insane and my personal favorite, retarded. Now don't get all pissed off, one or two more drinks and I won't be able to read, so I'm no better than these folks, it's just that it was so goddamn crazy workin' there.

We were allowed to stay at Hazy Acres, they gave us room and board as part of the pay, kind of incentive to stay, cause the turn over rate was pretty high. My bunkmate was this giant fucker named Wilson. Wilson had been at Reidsville the same time I had, but I didn't know him there. In prison the Clowns stay together, the Mexicans stay together and the Brothers stay together and you don't mix. Mainly, regardless of what they say, we didn't wanna fight each other. Why fuck up an already fucked up situation? It may be different in a city prison, but at the work farm, you were too tired to fuck, much less fight. So Wilson ends up being my first bunk mate outta the joint. We shared a 12x12 room that normally would go to two patients, or one violent one, for about 6 months... until the Booger Box Event.

Wilson ended up in Reidsville after his old lady ran off with their preacher, Lemmuel Pettibone. To hear Wilson tell it this woman was the most beautiful piece of ass to ever wipe front to back. She had left, and he went oft the deep end, and went and smoked some PCP. Now being a giant and feelin' invincible, as Angel Dust is wont to do to a plow hand, Wilson tore up downtown Ailey, Georgia. Ailey is not a big town, nor is it a progressive little burg, and a massive, African, PCP monster tearin' up Boyd's Bargains on The Square is not gonna go over well. After turnin' over two of the three Police cars that comprise the Greater Ailey Police Fleet, Wilson was brought down by four tranquillizer darts they save for big gators they have to re-locate. They didn't shoot him dead cause The Preacher Pettibone begged 'em not to, as Adultery was all the sinnin' he was willing have on his head, and he couldn't handle involvement in a murder as well. In a way it was the Pastor Lemmuel's Dick that had torn up the Five and Dime. Too bad it didn't get eight years on a prison work farm.

As the months went on, and I heard the story over and over, his wife's age got younger and younger. Wilson gave me more details. One day I saw him in the Library of the Hospital having something laminated. I asked what was so important as he needed to protect it with plastic. Huge ole Wilson yelped, wouldn't let me see it and ran off down the hall. Later when I went to shower, after one of my little darlings had thrown up Salsbury Steak all over me, Wilson was in the bath already.

I don't know if you've ever seen a giant naked.

Wilson was 6'10" and weighed around 540. He was also dark as shit. I mean the motherfucker was huge and pitch black, and here he is naked, hunched over in the corner, abusing hisself. Goodgodalmighty I didn't need this. The fucker looks like a stretch of asphalt with a hard on the size of an axe handle, and he's holdin' his plasticized trophy.

It's the girl off the Little Debbie box!
He's beatin' off to the Little Debbie girl fer kerrist sake's!

"Hey Laffo, you wanna use this when I'm done?” he pants.

"No, Wilson, I think I'm fine," I reply.

"Well I gots to get this poison outta me, or I'll go crazy."

Go crazy!? Go crazy!? You are polishing the banister to a painting of a child off a snack cake box! This shit's as crazy as it needs to be! So finish up sir, and then do it again, just to make sure all that insanity's outta you, cause your as big as a fuckin' Killer goddamn Whale and there's not a thing any of us could if you decided to lose your mind, outside of shooting you with a bazooka, and I'm fresh outta those!

I got dressed, WITHOUT showering at this point, and went back to the nuts and bolts room. Prissy was there with her Booger Box. Now she was wearin' her "Mustache Rides ¢5" sweatshirt and diggin' fer gold in that little pair of holes in the front of her face they call a nose, and she looked to be in a dark and foul mood this evening. After getting a rope of snot outta her face the size and thickness of a pencil, she opened the cigar box and wiped it inside. The interior of the Booger Box was covered with a decade's worth of mucus stalactites and stalagmites of different hues. You had your spring yellows, when Prissy had trouble with the Georgia pollen, the fall oranges and browns from when the patients were made to rake pecan leaves off the Hospital's campus, and the hearty greens from one of 15 annual colds contracted in that germ hole every year. That was one busy little box. Anyhoo, she had just made the last deposit into the First National Bank of Nose Putty, when a freshly masturbated Wilson comes in. I guess he felt so "SANE" with all his Semen Demons gone, that he was repulsed with Prissy's activities. He grabbed the box from her and said..."No!"

There was no sound, other than the normal roar of a mental home, as Prissy reached out and grabbed Wilson's gigantic huevos. She lifted him up off the floor and slung him, by his scrotum, through 3 studs, through the drywall, into the hallway and into a concrete block wall. Wilson just laid there like 500 pounds of pudding.

Hazy Acres, as part of the settlement, and continuing care Wilson would need for the rest of his days, allowed him to stay on as a patient. I bet he won't ever touch that cigar box again.
Hell, the poor fucker, can't.

I'm gonna take him a box of Oatmeal Creme Pies next week.

Wednesday, May 4, 2005

My Liver Has A Headache.

Good God what a weekend.

I last left you with the promise that Me and Sparkles was gonna get fucked up. This, in order, is what happened...

2 gallons of Watermelon Moonshine,
Somewhere in there a 8 cases of Black Label,
A whole bottle of smashed up Mini-Thins, 300 count, snorted,
23 blue pills Armando had,
Three white pills I had in an old shoe,
8 bottles of Boone's kiwi wine
A bottle of cooking sherry,
Vanilla extract,
The Freon outta of the neighbor's air conditioner, both sides, and across the street
The Freon outta of the neighbor's 1972 F100,
One bottle of banana Cisco...

OK, so it's the Cisco that fucks everything up. The wheels come off. That shit stops gravity. Maybe it increases it, I don't know, I just know that I was either standing up or falling down and the mandrill did nothing but jack off for 12 hours. I don't know if you've ever seen a baboon "Phone The Czar," but it's pretty gruesome. Not to mention he sounds like a coma victim off the respirator while he does it. Lemme tell you, that was a 72-hour bender for the record books.

Hey I'm real sorry about the Stinky Pete Woodlin story, I'll get to it, it ain't going no where. My life just got in the way of livin'.

I gotta go cause I'm gonna go do some medical tests. I mean I ain't conductin' 'em, they're payin' me to have 'em done to me. See you on Sunday, that's when I get back. Till then keep the stink end of yer fuck stick wet.

Feed the Ocelot, Lipstick and Sparkles.

Friday, April 29, 2005

Neener, neener, neener

This Goddamn squid.

I have no idea what possessed me to think that house training a cephalopod would be easy. There's ink everywhere and I just ruined my domestic partner's limited edition Frank Kosik Cure poster with it. Hell, he'll be in a little mascara-smeared ball all weekend over this, and will threaten suicide by eating a whole jar of Flintstone's Chewables. That's OK cause the next pet's gonna be even better.

I have a friend in the Congo who's sending me a new specimen for the old collection. Good Morning Mr. Marlburg! I'll have "Circus of Contagions" up and running by week's end. Ebola on the high wire, the high dive into the Petri sub-strate by HIV, a grand chariot race between Polio and Small Pox, of course Whooping Cough and Old Fashioned Croup have their Feats of Strength, and Rubella the Beautiful on her galloping Humbolt Squid. Goddamn it! There's fuckin' ink everywhere!

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Moonshine and Ex-Wives of Mine

Stinkin' Pete Woodlin was an old friend of mine. He was a trick roper and a whip cracker of some fame. He was gifted to say the least when he wasn't balls deep in a cheap piece of carnival snatch or on one of his patented four-day benders. I mean the motherfucker had drunk rubbin' alcohol so many times his stomach lining, more than likely, looked like a burn victim's taint, and the sumbitch couldn't eat nothin' but milk toast (or for you limey bastards out there - milque toaste). That's where you take a loaf of Bunny enriched white bread and brown it and shred it and pour a quart of butter milk over it till it turns into mush. Now believe it or not, this concoction does not have that many vitamins in it and Ole Stinkin' P was slowly digesting hisself just to keep the old home fire burnin'. The process of slowly dissolving, and digesting one's self with the added bonus of an even coating of your own shit and piss on you, plus the rank smell of circus cunt he couldn't stay out of, resulted in Stinkin' Pete Woodlin gettin' his handle.

Now Stinkin' P, I'll refer to him as "Stinky P" from here on out, like I said, was a goddamn genius with a whip, lariat or firearm. The firearms becoming more of problem as his DTs advanced, but I never saw him ever open a bottle by hand. He would pop that kangaroo leather cracker of his whip around a cork or cap and sling that fucker off without splllin' a drop, which, wastin' a drop of likker to Stinky P was a crime tantamount to killin' and eatin' a family of six.

He was... wait a minute... Fuck the Sheriff’s at the door... I'll finish this later, there's three or four out there and it looks like I'll be taking a blue light fast taxi for a while this afternoon.

Part Redux:

OK chalk on up for "Whoremundula" seems her "New Beau" beat the ever lovin' slut outta her and she told Barney Fife I did it. Well as I was writting to you by way of the Great American Novel here I was able to show them that I was on line at the time and was saved a vacation swingin' a yo-yo. The problem being now I don't feel like talking and I'm gonna go get Judy Garland style drunk. I have a new half gallon of Dawsonville watermelon hooch and me and the mandrill are gonna huff some Freon.

See you on the other side.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

A Bouquet of Turds.

Well for God's sake he's gone and done it (I refer to the lodger in my home that serves as my room-mate.) I feel as though you need some background on him. His name is Armando and we met each other on the Romeo Franklin Combined Show. I was coming out of my fourth protracted and bitter divorce, while he was, well... coming out. He had been a sword swallower for years and hind sight being twenty twenty, he had taken his work home with him, so to speak. The swallowing I mean.

Armando was always the fancy Dan, the blowsy silk pirate shirts he wore, the baboon skin mariachi pants he sported, the plum colored nutria smoking jacket he was always in, and that fuckin' fox stole... Christ he looked like Oscar Wilde had found a taxidermist to be his tailor. Anyhoo, he cut quite the dashing figure with his Cuban heeled boots and Italian rapier ever present (in case there was a call for swallowing to be done) and I figured, "what the fuck, I'll see if he wants to share a bunkhouse to save some scratch." What a maroon I turned out to be. This has turned out to be the worst roommate I've ever had, my third wife, the cooch dancer, or as I like to call her, "Whoremondula," not withstanding. The trick roper Stinkin' Pete Woodlin was better to co-habitate with, and that motherfucker smelled worse than tiger shit, and that's fuckin' awful. Ole Stinkin' P had even give us those Topengan burrowing lice, and he was still preferable to Armando. That lice thing is a whole nuther story.

So's I come home from the church, see I'm doing some community service thing and I had to get in 8 more hours before the end of the month, but again that's another story, and it smells like Armando is boiling a turd.
I'm like, "Jesus man what are you doing?"
"I'm trying to clean my fur," he minced.
"Clean it with what, you moron, a fucking corpse?"
"Well for your information your little dog defiled it," Armando said.
OK so I have this little dog named Lipstick of unknown heritage, and he weighs about 8 pounds, but by God 6 and a half of that is cock and balls. I mean this fucker is hung by the chimney with care, if you know what I mean. Well he's pretty ill tempered, and spiteful, and if he takes offense, good luck to you my dear sir. I mean I've stepped on his tail by accident and had the fucker shit on my pillow. You come home polluted, like John Huston kinda drunk, and flop down on the bed, just to smear dog shit all over the side of your face. Wonderful. Fuckin' brilliant. He also outta some vendetta, will piss down the grate on to the furnace. You know we've got one of those in the floor like at your Grandma's, and the bastard will wizz on it. Have you ever smelled buring piss? He even taught the Ocelot to do it to. Ocelot piss does not ever fuckin' go away. It's the herpes of piss.

He also likes humpin'. I mean he'll hunch shoes, dirty socks, underwear, the sofa, the poor Ocelot and now Armando's fox stole. But he didn't just hump it though, I mean the nasty little cur raped it. He buggered bald patches in the thing, spilling his evil little seed all over it. I think he even had Sparkles, the "chimp" I bought that turned out was really a mandrill, again another story, fuck it. This poor wrap was done "Last Exit to Brooklyn," style and Armando had tried to wash it. Well lemme tell you a wet 60 year old red fox stole smells like the back crease of a fat man, and baboon and demon spunk aren't pleasant in the least so you have an idea of where this is going. If it ended there I would have appologized and gone and gotten Armando a chinchilla, kicked the fuck outta Lipstick and beat Sparkles with a phone book, but Armando had to do it his way. He dumped my entire bottle of Club Man on the fucker, which on a good day smells like New Orleans, and follows that with the last of my Hai Karate Lime. I won't be finding any more of that now will I? Why not use some of his "Morrissey for Men" or "The Smell of Truman Capote?" Goddamn it.

Awright so I hide my "medicine" in the stove. We sure as fuck don't use it... Till today.

Armando douses his rat wrap with my stink good and throws it on top of mommy's lil' helper I've got stashed, and cranks the oven up to 525. The wagon is hot enough to give George Hamilton a burn, and smells like an ape fuckin a salesman who's farting brimstone and eatin' dead skunk.

"Whatta you have to say for yourself?" I rage at Armando.

"I want you out of here immediately!" he shrills.

It's my fuckin' wagon.
He'll start packin' as soon as he comes to.
He's also gonna clean that turd off my pillow.