Prof. Jas. M. Stacy's Odditorium of Minutia

The turning of 43.

2010-01-26T22:07:00.000-08:00

I have gotten out the habit of posting of on this thing, but more importantly gotten out of the habit of drawing. Unless I had a Job, I wasn't drawing daily. I was only doing a piece here and there if it was for a show. Granted I've shown a good bit this year, built a great number of things, and had my first Photography show in 25 years, but it didn't feel like I've been drawing, and I hadn't, at least not like I did when I was Tattooing.

So I made a resolution to quit smoking and did, we're having a kid, and I'm resolving to make something, no matter how small everyday. I have to pay more attention to the time that I waste more than anything, as I'm soon to have little free time available at all.

For the Love of Pete.

2008-09-01T21:59:00.000-07:00

Well, here we go again...

anselpixel.blogspot.com

There are douche bags everywhere. Some might be at the same event you attended. That doesn't mean everyone at the event or the event shares the same mindset. Classic knee jerk armchair criticism. But why be eloquent when you can be reactionary? Why see it as an incredibly rare event that many different ages, races and social classes to come together for two days no matter how stupid and offensive a portion of them are? It's easier just to lump it into one pot and wonder why it tastes shitty.

I guess all the Minorities involved in The Drive Invasion and the day to day operation of The Starlight are invisible to this guy. I know my black friend set up in the front row must have been. I remember showing BLAZING SADDLES this year. If that's not a discussion on race I don't know what is. I guess he wasn't there the year we had Rudy Ray Moore at the festival and showed two of his movies. Knowing Mr. Moore, he would be pissed he wasn't black enough to count.

What gets me is not that he pointed out out the few racist shitheads that may have been there, it's that he consistently calls the event racist. Just because one of those dicks is in Kroger buying Milk doesn't make the Grocery Store a Bigot or the Frozen Pizzas a Nazi.

Here's some of last years moaning:

Creative Loafing Atlanta Blogs

Guess what... A swastika or SS tattoo is moronic. Last time I looked it wasn't illegal - just in bad taste, ignorant and childish.

I also get the feeling that the "All these Tattoos" mindset is bordering on judgmental and classist as well. It's not anyone else's business and the individual's right to self expression. If I had the right to control who could and could not come to the Event by the way they looked then there wouldn't have been anyone in MANDALS.

This is not the case and I saw Man Feet for 2 days.

It Was Colder Than A Well Digger's Ass.

2008-07-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

Another try at the Pano. Shot in early December, 2007, some issues with the polarizing filter and getting the sky to jump smooth, went ahead and put it together anyway. It was brutal cold, in the teens if I remember right - made for great stars. Going to do a Four Seasons from the same spot but was unhappy with the Winter shots. Will shoot Summer this week and go from there. Gonna start shopping a Starlight 60th Anniversary Show at a Gallery somewhere. The place turns 60 in April, so that would be a good time for it.

Cheers,

I Remain,

Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

New Drive-In stuffs.

2008-07-06T18:02:00.000-07:00

In the process of re-doing every sign out here. Work for months.

Here's a classic example of the operating I.Q. out here on the lot, I just had to stop and kill all the Power in the North Snack Bar to pull a MASTER LOCK AND CHAIN OUT OF THE MAIN 240 POWER BOX. That's right, if you want to store 5 foot of Logging Chain and a Commercial Padlock, throw it on top of a Junction Box that contains the Main Power, so it can snake in and weld itself to your leads.

Awesome.

Prof. and Plastic Coat-Hanger 1 - 240 Junction Box and Electrical Disaster 0.

On to the Pictures and such.

For the Ice Creams...

For the Candies...

For this Brilliant Glow Toy Action from the Hive Mind in Cally-O-Forn-Eye-A...

Fuggin with Electricity,

I Remain Upright,

Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

New Delicious.

2008-07-06T17:49:00.000-07:00

Here's the new items for Pallookaville.

It was a toss up as to what the Wagon was gonna carry.

Corn Dogs or Tamales. Now it will be both, depending on the Festival.

Enjoy.

Here are some shots of the Hairy Fat Boy, my answer to the Frito Bandito.

Thanks for Coming by,

Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

Outside on the Lot after the Storm.

2008-07-06T17:39:00.001-07:00

New photo. 25 shots laced together and the Horizon is sheared. Not bad for a Jackass. Just a matter of time before I get struck by lightening again.

I Remain,

Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

Is That Peanut Butter In Yer Mouth Or Are You Really That Well Spoken?

2008-05-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

I saw these shorts on TCM about 10 years ago and have emailed them numerous times to see if they would ever be commercially available. They said no, and now these clips show up.
I need some of you Turner Geeks to get me copies of these so I can watch nothing but Dogs in Pants on my TV.
Goddamitt, is it too much to ask to have a Channel that shows nothing but animals in Dramatic Human Roles? Dogville Shorts, Lancelot Link, Mr. Ed, blah, blah, blah. I like this type of entertainment better than watching people. It does re-enforce just how completely worthless Glen is.

Queenie in Trouble:

So Quiet on the Canine Front:

The Big Doghouse:

College Hounds:

Surfin' Spy:

Evolution Revolution:

It's time to get this shit straight people.

Laffo

UPDATE!
Damn if The Good Prof. didn't find these fuckers on a DVD fer me.
Get yours here:
World's Best Comics and Toys

Another Update!

World's Best Comics and Toys is a ripoff!

Took payment, never sent the item, won't return Emails or calls and now we have a dispute going through PayPal. This fucker is a Thief, long and short of it,

And I still don't have movies of Dogs in Pants!

Just Right Outside

2008-05-20T23:24:00.000-07:00

Some last evenings what happened.
Prof. Jas. M.Stacy

Panoramas

2008-05-19T21:49:00.001-07:00

Some experiments with multiple shots. These are upwards of 12 - 15 shots laced together. The Canyon pic was a gift for my folks, the print is 50 inches wide. I like that you can see the curve of the Earth. The horizon is almost 900 miles from point to point. This is Mather Point on the South Rim.
Out,
Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

A Lil' More Xmas, a Little Less Attacking the Old Lady.

2008-05-16T21:30:00.000-07:00

Me und the Missus' Xmas shots from the last two years. Thanks to Jason Shattles aka Lopez, for being our Yuletime Photographer. I think the recurring theme is I'm either gonna cut her in half or eat her. Either is fine with me. This year's will be no different.

Cover Up That Large Nachos Please.

2008-05-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

New Snack Bar Shirts for the Starlight. A Quick one off. The Ladies should love em as they sling the Chili Dogs and Cheeseburgers. Soon the Fryers will be here and we can all have French Fries with your damn Movies. It's about time.
Prof. Jas. M. Stacy.

More Ole Greasepaint Crap.

2008-05-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

On Him Being Gone a Year.

2008-05-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

I wrote this last Labor Day in our Drive-Invasion Guide as a Memorial to Marc. As we just passed his 1st Anniversary I figured it's time to take off my Stovepipe, think about what a fucking treasure he was, and wipe my eyes.
Miss you Mr. Fenyo, Sleep Well.
I Remain,
Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

Abandoned Russian Wooden Homes

2008-05-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

This is reposted from www.englishrussia.com. It's a crazy site that catalogs random shit from the ole U.S.S.R. Now that Putin is two steps away from proclaiming himself Dictator, the Cold War might just just have been a head cold. Really unbelievable Carpentry, and Craftsmanship. The Russians know how to build em. I'll post some Russian Space Program stuff soon, it's crazy good looking too.

До свидания

Laffo

Found more here: Abandoned
And Here
And Here
And Here
And Finally Here

Some Old Clown Sheet with a Shitty Claus Chaser.

2008-05-15T18:56:00.001-07:00

Here's the first Round there's a lot more to come.

Prof. Jas. M. Stacy.

A Little YuleLog Cheer, Cause I Could Use It.

2008-05-15T18:40:00.000-07:00

For some reason I love this fuggin' photo. I don't know if it's because I can almost see his Eczema falling into the Pie, or smell the Fresca over his Halitosis. Whatever the reason, I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this most Christmasy of Douche bags.

Here's some adds for YULELOGMART.

Happy Holidays,
You'll see more in July,
Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

Tewe Can Keep A Secret....

2008-05-06T17:59:00.000-07:00

Well our good friends at The Plaza Theatre had a Movie and Art Opening the other Night. We was there, as we had two pieces in the show. Pulled out the Pirate gear and the Weenie Queen and myself, dolled up and went the fuck out.

There's Prints of these available as well, 16 x 24 for $100. Lemme know.

Laffo's been chomping at the bit to write something filthy, so that might just happen soon. I'm also gonna post an archive of all the Greasepaint Posters and the other finished book, "Mud, Blood and Greasepaint." Here's a look at the other pirate piece not for sale.
I remain,
Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

The Only Good Human, is a Dead Human.

2008-04-13T17:39:00.000-07:00

We had the Planet of the Apes Group Show, "Damn Dirty Ape" at The Gallery at East Atlanta Tattoo and it was a blast. Plenty of Beers, we did Pallookaville and were swamped the entire night, and we rolled out the new Dessert Corndog:

The Bananas Foster is a frozen Banana dipped in Funnel Cake Batter, deep Fried and covered with Ho-made Caramel, Powdered Sugar and Chocolate Sauce. It does not suck.

Which brings us to the Meat of the Matter. I have 4 Prints left of the Ape Army Recruiting Poster. They are $125, plus S&H. These guys are big, 27 x 40. Lemme know.

I remain,
Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

Tornaders and CabbageTown is Wrecked.

2008-03-17T17:23:00.000-07:00

A lot of folks in Cabbage Town and the Cotton Mill Lofts are out of a place to live now. There will be lots of opportunity to help. Please get off yer asses and do so. It coulda been you.

On Six Months on a Drive-In.

2007-12-10T14:07:00.000-08:00

A Delightful New Work for Youngsters.

2007-11-08T13:47:00.000-08:00

One small step for Laffo, two or three steps for Shaftsquatch and The Weenie Queen.

2007-10-15T12:28:00.000-07:00

Well, as usual Laffo's best laid plans can be dashed into lil' pieces by one Customer Nonservice Representative after another. We contacted our Corn Dog Kiln Manufacturer as we were missing the shielding and fuel rod holder that power the mighty furnace. Bob (our physicist at the plant) put all the missing equipment on a plane, on Thursday, in Ohio. Now Ohio is where all great Corndog Fabrication Equipment is made. Detroit may be known for Elephant Ears, Iowa for Roasted Corn and San Francisco for its Cotton Candy, but the great and progressive state of Ohio, smells, tastes and eats like Corndog. The "shipping" company, referred to in all lower case letters, and in quotation marks, will henceforth be known as PMS, as they are a pain in my cooze, and made me so mad I couldn't wear white pants. On the PMS website it shows the "Heart of the Furnace," for ease we'll call it "HoF" from now on, leaving Ohio on Thursday 11 at 1611 and arriving at the PMS terminal 1 at 1835. It then went to Sharonville, Ohio around 2249, loafed around and caught a ride out at 0055 on the 12th. The HoF touched down in Louisville, Kentucky, at 0250, got a cup of coffee and was on its way by 0350. All is well. HoF's making great time, and just glowing with the possibility of making Corndogs for all the fine people. Hapeville, Georgia is just a scant 3 miles from Our Laboratory and I would have jumped into Pallookaville Prime and greeted HoF as he made his way down the gangplank – but PMS didn't call. I was up. I wouldn't see sleep for 46 hours during the launch. I was up, do you hear me? He saw Hapeville at 0433 in our fair burg. It's now Friday. The HoF was loaded onto a transport vessel at 0800 hours, buckled himself in and left the terminal at 0830… Now the mystery begins… At 1330 Laffo calls Bob From Ohio to see if everything's okay. "Yes sirree buddy, everything's just right as rain," he Midwest drawls to me. Boy Howdy this shit's gonna work. At 1430 we check the PMS Website and see HoF is still "Out for Delivery." Before I go any further let's discuss this last sentence, as no one who works at PMS will give me an answer. I want to know what "Out for Delivery" means. Now English might as well be a second language to me, but I think I know what this means. "Out" means not "In," "for" is expressing the item's intention which it will undergo, and "Delivery" is the act of someone receiving something. So let's get this straight: "Out for Delivery" means "The HoF is no longer inside the Terminal and is going to the Person who requested it, so it can be in their possession." According to PMS this is not what "Out for Delivery" means; in fact they wouldn't tell me what it means, because it's a secret for example… "So what does 'Out for Delivery' mean then, it's almost 4:00 p.m.'" Says Laffo. "It means 'Out for Delivery,'" says the delightful woman at PMS. "Okay, I know what the phrase is, I need you to give me your definition of 'Out for Delivery,' so I know what to expect from you guys," Laffo coos. "It means 'Out for Delivery,'" chimes the precious woman at PMS. "Am I getting my Part?" Laffo, getting frustrated, pants. "Maybe. It's 'Out for Delivery,'" counters the princess at PMS. Who's on first at PMS? Who cares? With same the quality of information on the HoF's whereabouts, I could have caught the 911 terrorists. The HoF now goes missing. Into thin motherfuckin air, A magic Corndog part. I call Bob, as he's leaving the plant, "Hey Bob, is this a magic part?" He replies, "Well there Laffo, there are magic parts to it, as the rods are whittled owt of Unicorn Horn by an Elvin Craftsman of Nod, but we've double bound them in place with a cordage spell from beyond the Carpathians and triple shielded them with the good intentions of a fair virgin." "Really?" Laffo quizzes. "No you dumb ass," he says, "It's a galvanized shoebox, stuffed with slightly unstable Uranium 238, which at one point was weapons grade, but I can't vouch for the 238's quality, as we step on that shit pretty hard, and you know the money's in the cut. Now can I leave? I got Bitches in the car, hot and ready to go Dawg. Forget my motherfuggin digits for the weekend boo. If you have issues call somebody who cares what yo white ass needs, now bounce." Shit, I've been read the riot act by a fuggin Engineer. From now on he'll be The Whiggasist. This will be the first "Fuck You" of the tale. I call back PMS and let them know that it is indeed not a magic part and therefore should not dematerialize. The Mensa member at PMS says, "It's 'Out for Delivery.'" Good Keerist... "Where's my part," "Will it be here," "Why is it not here," "When will it not be here," "Where would one look for it," "How long before someone will START to look for it," "Could a Supervisor be called," "Will someone please return JUST ONE of my calls," "Can someone else help me," "Why do you insist on doing this," and lastly," "is there anyone who knows what's going the fuck on over there?" these are some of the questions my new best friend at PMS, could not answer. Why in the world would you have tracking information if you can't track the package? I was told they can't get a hold of the driver. What? My goddamn Father knew exactly where the fuck I had snuck off to every Saturday Night, regardless of how well I covered my tracks, and they're telling me they can't find a package I paid them $90.00 American to deliver? It was over-knighted, which means the 8 day investigation you're gonna do is not gonna help me. It's 7 days too late you shithead. That's insulting. Number Two. "Fuck You."

Dirtleg enjoys pretend games with our CORNLEONE product.

I have a small emergency. I will have no engine to launch Pallookaville with. The scientists at Grumman are off on a three day whore and booze weekend in TJ, so I can't call them. Morton Thikol is still pissed I wouldn't take out their Electron Biologist on a date, so I can't call them. I bullied Lockheed Martin in High School so that's out. Where am I gonna get a Corndog engine? I'm not. I'm gonna quit. My heart is broken. Yet another mission scrubbed, because no one gives a shit anymore. Well here comes The Weenie Queen and talks me off the ledge. This is no easy feat as I'm 18 hours into a ball breaker and I'm exhausted, disgusted, pissed and upset that these no talent fucks have lost my engine, and now my coating tubs haven't shown up from another vendor. I'm gonna have a breakdown. I'm gonna crack. I'm gonna explode. Well in the infinite wisdom that only a woman has, she throws my words back at me. MY OWN WORDS. God, I hate it when the advice I give someone else, in my smug, self righteous manner, is applied to me and it works. So she says, "Well you know you can't cancel, you're not that kind of asshole. I mean you're an asshole, don't get me wrong, but not that kind of asshole."

Coffee, Tea or Weenie?

And then she said it… "The Show Must Go On." Boom. Crash. Smack. Kachow. She pulled out the heavy artillery and put a hole right in my crystallizing plans for sleep sometime in the next day. Bap. "The Show Must Go On." Those five words made the little pieces of P.T. Barnum DNA I have squirm and contort, and maybe just maybe it was the lack of sleep, but a light shone down on me and I said, "I can do this thing, The Show Must Go On." Well, twelve hours later, Shaftsquatch and I were loaded and finally off to the Fair Grounds to make The Corndogs. Now I have to tell you, I've Okayed the Batter, I've hand-picked the Sausages off our Sausage Tree, and I've had Thai Refugees carving Corndog sticks for three months, but I haven't fried a Corndog with the Rig. There is no Rig to fry with. I'm gonna have to cook in a wash pot with natural fuels neath it. Like Caveman style. I'm a fan of being rustic, don't get me wrong, but when I'm gonna make what I consider to be the Godhead of foods, I want some stainless steel, some nuclear waste and a Slim Shady wannabe designing my containment center. I'm not really wanting to fry in gusty 15 mile an hour winds, with Dentists and Accountants in brand new leather chaps and huge mid-life cry-seize asking for Hamburgers and Fries, but I will… because "The Show Must Go On." After an ass heavy Pallookaville One crushing Laffo's clown foot, and dragging Pallookaville One off the trailer hitch on a speed bump, because the receiver was packed full of mud, we were off. No tail lights or tags, no inspections, just hairy, hairy men with 3200 lbs of makings, and dreams of making the Best Corndog on the Planet. We got to the Stone Mountain Harley Dealership at about 8:45 and started getting set up. Took a while cause it's our first time don't cha know. The first Corndogs were a little over done as I was trying to control the heat on 60 lbs of winterized cottonseed oil in the wind, which ain't rocket science, but not far off, and we got it going. Cam and Scott out at the dealership asked Pallookaville to do this party a while back and the guys are class, so I thought it would be a good shake down launch. Cam and Laffo go aways back. Cam he used to dress up Party City style and ride his motor sickle all about. So being that two fellers are dressed as clowns, Nature dictates they speak. Well, eventually he built a Clown Harley, all polka dots and such and Laffo was doing the "Reverend Uncle Laffo's Quality Amateur Talent Sideshow," and Cam was at the Vortex doing Bike Night and showing off the new bike. Laffo's outside the Star Bar across the street smoking and what not, when Cam gets ready to leave. Not all the bugs are quite worked out of the bike, and the carb stalls the bike while the throttle sticks open. Well all hell breaks loose and Cam lays the fucker down. To his credit he's not hurt and the bike is fine, but it looks gruesome. Laffo runs cross the street and picks the bike off of him. Man, a giant clown pulling a Clown Harley off another clown in the middle of Moreland… priceless. So, that being said Laffo thinks it's good to have a buddy like Cam. Now I'm not a big motor sickle kinda guy cause they scare the shit outta me. I'm too goofy and spastic to ride a motor sickle and enjoy it. I'd have already played out the accident and resulting paralysis in my mind over and over and that gets in the way of a good time. Now because I'm not motorcycle crazy, I don't get some of it. Don't get me wrong; I defend to the death, the right for anyone to be who they want, as long as they don't hurt anyone. I can't, however, understand the yuppie biker or "Yike" as we likes to call em. I saw a fool walking around with a skin tight shirt on that was covered with fake tattoos. Fake Harley Davidson tattoos. Whatta fuggin' twat. How in hell can a grizzled Vietnam War Vet with grey hair down to his nuts, and blue tattoos of nekkid wimmens on his forearms, look at these shits and not scream. I'm not a biker and I want to. I think dressing up is fun, fuck I'm a clown. I look like a clown. I act like a clown… well I act like a shithead, but I look like a clown. These guys are pretending to be rebels. I feel that's insulting to the guys that are actually rebellious. There can be many kinds of bikers, but just be the same guy you were Wednesday Morning, on Saturday Afternoon when you pulled the bike out for a "little bugs in the teeth." Just be genuine. Please cut out the motherfucking posing. It stinks and looks really stupid. But again, to each his own, it's not my fucking business so I should shut up. Number Three, "Fuck Me."

Please Read the Menu

Corndogs are my business, and business was good. Even though we don't sell beer, we don't have Hamburgers and Fries, and you can get pissed about it all you want to, but I'm still not gonna have em, and isn't there a Chain Burger Joint literally 200 yards from where you stand? That short answer would be "YES." The day progressed nicely with "The System" showing itself and "The Process" organically becoming evident. Now when I say The System, I mean the way orders get bandied back and forth and the way a Corndog makes it to yer guts. The Process is everything else in between, like smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, shaking heads at idiots, etc. This may be a wagon but the KP Area better act like a traditional kitchen. I need a Guatemalan Dish Washer, a Meth Head Sous Chef and an Angry Lesbian Grill Cook, and then the Lesbian and the Meth Head need to get in a knife fight, after that the Wagon would be like a real kitchen I guess.

No Really, Read the Fucking Menu

And so we made Corndogs and people seemed to dig em, even thought the humor of the whole thing was lost on 95% or the people, that's with +or- 2 % margin for error, with the people who got it, really getting it.
Well gotta see if I can find out how in hell to get a vendor spot for the L5P Halloween Parade as it's time to take the Corndogs Home.

Thanks, and I still Remain,

The Prof. Jas M. Stacy

Thanks to Stinkrrrbell and Lopez for the pics.

A Conumdrum Fried in an Enigma

2007-04-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

Alas,

Pallookaville One will not be ready for a Drive-Invasion '07 launch like expected. I then thought that The East Atlanta Strut would be window two, but The Weenie Queen and I will be moving into the Laboratories that weekend. So...

It looks like The Maiden Corn Dogage will be the Little Five Points Halloween Parade (if they have the damn thing, which every year they threaten not to, and the announcement gets later and later every year). Hopefully the Wagon will be there.

The WQ and myself spent some quality time with the Snellville Lions Club at the Gwinnett County Fair Grounds and scored a Funnel Cake Bather, a Hot Water Producer and a 100 lb Gas Tub. They also offered to extend membership into the Lion's Club to Laffo, to bring down the average age of the crew, as the youngest member is 64, (The oldest member being 96, and reportedly more active than anyone else). How so ever tempting the chance to be a Lion, Laffo graciously declined, and we vacated that vacant Fair Lot.

We still await our Deep Core Corn Dogger from The Great Lakes. The DCCD, as she's referred to in the Laboratories, is making her way down now and we anticipate her arrival.

Sim's City Hot Rods will be doing the External Coating Process on Pallookaville One as soon as the barnacles are scraped off her hull. A special Secret Famous Guest will be lettering and striping the Staid Old Gal, to bring her back to all her Midway Tawdriness.

So the package arrived from Texas Crumb and Batter with the first try on our Super Secret Golden Cornbread Batter and Funnel Cake Makings! There are a few adjustments to make to the recipes, but we've a got a damn good start. These folks are a dream to work with and have been willing to match our recipes exactly. Texas Crumb and Batter are the folks to kick out Laffo's Super Secret Golden out since they've only been in business for 100 years. Literally.

Until Then I Remain,

The Prof. Jas. M. Stacy

Bend Her In Half… I Did

2006-01-04T11:59:00.000-08:00

Okay, I haven’t written in a while cause some folks took offense to some things I said, and I was lettin’ that die down, cause if there’s one thing I hate it’s whining about feelings and having things pointed out to me that I already fuckin’ know and me wanting to point out how fuckin’ wrong you are, but not having the energy to pound it into your feeble skull of puss. To youse out there that think’s this is about you… It’s not. IT’S FUCKING ABOUT ME. LAST TIME I LOOKED THIS WAS MY STORY, NOT YOURS. GO FUCK YERSELF.

That said…
My second wife was a departure for me. Instead of being swayed by Tits, Ass and Attitude I stayed with what I knew... The Show. I figured my Lovely Divorce was the result of two pieces of shit not coming together to make a diamond. I mean what the fuck is an Alcoholic, Comedic Curmudgeon gonna have in common with a Pickled Cum Guzzlin’ Card Shark? Nothing, that’s what. After the Honeymoon is over, throw the fuckin’ sheets away, cause this Train has Sailed.

I figured I was Circus, I mean C-I-R-C-U-S, from when I was eight fuckin’ years old, nuther story, I’ll tell you, I promise, along with the Stinkin’ Pete Woodlin story I keep forgettin’ to tell you, I swear to fuckin’ Kerrist I’m like Uncle Remus with Adult ADD, But I was C-I-R-C-U-S. So I says to myself…
“Laffo you fucked up with that last bit of Rube Pussy you hooked up with, so I think you might want to stick with ‘Circus Cooze.’ ”

Now Ole Stinkin’ Pete Woodlin, or Stinky P, you remember, is one of my oldest friends. Notice I didn’t say best… it’s hard to be someone’s best friend, when they are as fucked up as Ole Stinky P. Stinky would sell the gold outta yer teeth for a can of Sterno, he’s that bad. Hell he’s gotten worse, cause now his piss smells like brass. LIKE MOTHERFUCKIN’ BRASS. I guess Ole’ Stinky P now has stinky pee. Anyhoo, he and I refer to the “Ladies” on the lot, and I use that term loosely, cause most of ‘em would rather gut yer sorry ass than fuck you, unless you have a bottle and a fresh paycheck. A Fifth and a Fifty and all of a sudden it’s BillyBob and Angelina type inappropriateness. These whores will suck exactly one Fifth of Likker and one Fifty Dollar Bill’s worth of sap outta you and leave you in the Sawdust by yer lonesome, with a cumstain on clown pants, that you didn’t put there. Now don’t that tarnish the Chrome of a Women’s standing in a clown’s eye. It do my brother, It do. So there’s different levels of Circus Cooze…
Here’s My Guide…

From Top To Bottom:

1. Conjoined Wimmen.
2. Contortionists
3. Tiger Trainers
4. Aerialists
5. Equestrians
6. Acrobats
7. Mess Tent Girls
8. Runaways
9. Rube Girls
10. Elephant Handlers
11. Hoochie Coochie Dancers
12. Clown Pussy

Conjoined Wimmen: The Siamese Pussy
This is the HOLY MOTHERFUCKIN’ GRAIL Hefe. I mean it’s two wimmen stuck the fuck together. Four tits, two asses, two pussies with matching assholes, well I guess that depends on how they’re built and all, but I’m sure it could happen, and there’s only 2 down sides…

A. They are Sideshow royalty. No one, and I mean no one fucks with a Siamese. That what you call the conjoined… The Siamese. You do not get between a Sideshow boss and his ¢.25 pieces. He has more scumbag, shithead, dope fiends working for him, that would eat a baby, raw just to get their fix, that will kill you, and not remember it, just for fucking with The Siamese. You do not Fuck the Siamese with yer pathetic little, wet, grey cock, because you’re not worth it.
Unless that is, you have money. You have money and that Siamese Pussy opens up like a fireworks stand in late June. That’s why there’s always a steady line of “Gentleman Callers” outside their wagon after curtain call. Big, fat, mustachioed fuckers all spats and watch chains. Real Captains of Industry types. You and I don’t have Siamese Pussy type Money. We never will.

B. It’s two GODDAMN WIMMEN STUCK TOGETHER. What kinda cruel fuck thought that up and thrust it on mankind? Another argument for a just and loving GOD there, read with sarcasm. Think about it… They are twins. That’s already fucked up, cause they talk telepathically, and you’re fucking a girl and her sister at the same time and they are always together. That’s a recipe for Grade A, FDA Approved, Class Action Lawsuit, IRS Super Audit, Fucking Disaster.

Oh yeah, they are TWO FUCKING WIMMEN.

Contortionists: Gumby for Your Cock
I love Contortionists. So much so that I can almost eat a whole one. I love the way they look, the way they move, the way they talk, all wispy because their ligaments are so stretched out, their ribcage can’t force out a deep breath, and that means, NO YELLING. No Yelling when you come home drunk, smelling like Ole Stinky P, cause yall guys were drunk as fuck and huggin each other and tellin’ each other how much you love the two of you,
“I fuggin’ luf yew, yew sack of lice.”
“No Man, I fuggin’ luf yew, yew fuggin’ abortion.”
Yadda, yadda, yadda for six hours…
Anyways they don’t yell. And they are nasty. Any Girl who knows the smell and taste of her own pussy and ass, without touching it with her hand is a FUCKIN’ DIRTY NASTY WHORE, AND I’LL TAKE THREE PLEASE THANK YOU. She will fuck the lead outta the paint on the windowsill of yer wagon and then piss on you! She will suck you a new foreskin, cornhole you with a Hummel Figurine and then Ejaculate all over yer neck! She is the Special Oympics of fucking, meaning yer dick in her pussy is fucked up, stupid, ugly and doing things it has no ability to do, like the long jump with a withered leg.

I loved the one I had, Wife Number Two…

One down side:
A. They break easy. Elephant versus Contortionist. Elephant always wins. This is another rant you’ll hear soon, be patient Grasshopper.

Tiger Trainers: Bloodshed in the Bedroom
Holy fuck these Bitches are Fucking infuckingsane. I cannot stress how batshit these girls are. Lemme put it in perspective, Tigers are mean. Tigers are ill tempered, dangerous killing machines, equipped with 20 butcher knives for hands, jaws that can bite a 4X4 landscape timber in half, a frame that can drag 3 times it’s body weight up in to a tree, and piss that burns like acid. She trains these things everyday for 6 hours at a time, YOU ARE A PUSSY. I have known Tiger Trainers that have worked with the same animal from birth for years, just to have the beast literally turn on them, rip open their guts and feast on their master’s innards while they watched ‘em die. No Shit. Don’t believe me? “Read The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel” by Robert Hough (He’s the guy that wrote Wicked) and see for yerself you fuck. Basically tiger training is letting the Tiger rape you in a controlled manner. Again No Shit. They will ejaculate on you at the end of the act. THIS GIRL ALLOWS 1200 POUND DEATH PROFESSIONALS TO RAPE HER TWICE A DAY, WITH THEIR GIANT BARBED PENISES. YER PATHETIC COCK WILL NOT IMPRESS HER.

Down Side:
Giant Barbed Penises, smelling of rotten Horse Meat and Cat Piss.

Aerialists: Mother of Mary it’s a Shotgun
Aerialists all come from Eastern Europe, Venezuela or Argentina and have 30 people in their families they live with. There are so many relatives in Aerialist’s troupes that they set up their own family camps. Their father and 12 brothers are only interested in the girls marrying another Aerialist so the family can number 60. You will not win a fight with an Aerialist… Male or Female, someone they’re related to will hit you in the head from behind. I promise. They are Gypsies. I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with Gypsies but it always ends up with someone gettin’ stabbed. It ain’t never the Gypsy gettin’ shanked. They eat Goat, dance in circles, cast spells and are Catholic.

The Down Sides:
A. They are Catholic. Danger Will Robinson. Circus life does weird things to Religion. The basic natures of The Sideshow and Religion are completely opposed. You go into someone’s town, steal their money, wimmen, food and valuables, get as drunk as you can, start some fires, rape someone, maybe even kill ‘em, and then go to church.
It don’t work.
B. The spells. Well with the good comes the bad. One pill makes you bigger, while the other makes you small. Nuff said.
C. They will eventually no longer be an Aerialist. The Men do it until they’re Eighty, but the Women stop when they’re 24. They are hot as shit when they’re swinging around, but as soon as they retire…
400 Pounds and a beard.

Equestrians: Tiger Training Lite
The same as Tiger Trainers without the Death and such. Giant cocks, rippling muscles, neither of which you have.
Let’s move on…

Acrobats: A Pale Substitute for Contortionists
They think they’re Contortionists, but they’re not. More than likely they’re part of an Aerialist Family, so watch out for Kerrist’s sake.

Mess Tent Girls: Missus Mess
Mess Tent Girls start as Runaways so they are fucked. The only way for them to become C-I-R-C-U-S is to get Tattooed from Head to Tail, which is appealing in it’s own way, or marry C-I-R-C-U-S. A majority of the Sideshows Grande Dames started as Mess Tent Girls and there’s no shame in it, it just takes smarts, work, and no venereal diseases, to pull it off. Most Mess Tent Girls have no smarts, are lazy as hell and are riddled with contagion. Now this is how it goes for the good ones. The Mess Tent Girl always starts out as a cute Runaway. Cookie grabs up the cute ones and sends the ugly ones packing, so the goods are there to begin with. She starts working the ranks… Fucking the Stable Boys, then The Canvasmen, then the Electrician, then the Addict Surgeon that’s so washed up that he has to be the Show’s Veterinarian and this is the only Doctor job the state will let him have anymore after the incident in Grand Rapids, more on that later, and finally one of the Marquis Stars. The owner of the10 In One will put his grizzled old pud in her and knock her up and she will threaten to squeal, so he buys her two Pythons and a wagon with full canvas Bannerlines, and sets her up. Then he goes to the Gypsies and gets a tincture of Blue and Black Cohosh and the problem stays in the Latrine. Now either one of two things will happen… she will straighten up and become a valued member of the show, making her act into something new and different and will eventually marry one of the riggers and have a great life and all will be forgotten about her conniving past, or she will get on the junk, pass out and get cut in half by the Train.
It’s the Circus version of Roe VS. Wade…
It’s her fucking choice.

Runaways: Poor Little Trash
Like I said before, there is no room for an ugly Runaway in the Circus. Sorry, it’s just supply and demand. Runaways are a dime a fucking dozen at every stand. Every town everywhere has a dozen girls longing to run away. 10 do it. 6 show up at the Circus to leave with it. 2 are ugly. Out of the remaining 4, 3 will go home. Of the 1 left, 30 percent will stay with the Circus longer than 2 months. Of those that stay, 60 percent will get junked out and die, or get killed in some accident cause they have no business being on the Goddamn lot in the first place, of the remaining 40 percent 75 percent of that will stay for a coupla years and then go straight, meaning back to regular Rube life. The Runaways that are left sometimes become Functional Grand Dames. Grand Dames are untouchable, they’re like the Mafia. They control all the politics in the Show. Nothing gets done without them. Piss one off and you might as well leave and find another Circus to work for, cause you are cooked. Make an enemy of one, and you can wind up dead. It’s that easy.

Rube Girls: Disposal Units
Everything about a Runaway is brash, naïve and injured. Everything about a Rube Girl is NO BALLS. She wants to taste the Circus but at a distance. She can’t make a decision and is Wishy Washy, Civilian, Aunty Mae, Apple Pie, Dish Water and isn’t worth the risk of getting’ shot by some Turnip Farmer pissed that yer Clown Cock is goin’ in and out of his lil’ Girl’s Snatch. Done.

Elephant Handlers: Pussyderms
A Circus Elephant is usually an Indian Elephant. African Elephants are hard to train, and Male Africans are too dangerous to have around the public. They will routinely kill handlers when in heat. A male African goes into a fertile period once a year called “Must.” While in Must he is an 8 Ton fucking machine that is literally unstoppable. Jumbo the famous Barnum African Bull, which the term for large comes from, was an African Male caught as a Calf in Ethiopia. He was exhibited in London Zoo and became impossible for his handlers to control as he approached sexual maturity. So in a stroke of brilliance Ole P.T. hisself went across the big water and got “The Old Chap” setting him down in America. This 1882 and America wasn’t as litigious as it is now so an 11 foot tall, ornery pachederm is the perfect thing to put children on.

"Jumbo, Friend Of Children."

Well he was a hit… The word Jumbo became synonymous with Giant and Barnum got even richer, the old rotter. In 1885 Jumbo went into Must and was killed by a train. He derailed a train. A FUCKIN TRAIN.

"Jumbo, Friend Of Children Derails Train With Cock."

Circuses now use Indian Females only because they’re safer. Safer than what? A Gatling Gun? An Elephant broke my Contortionist. You can keep ‘em. While you’re at it keep the… the Elephant handlers too cause we’re just gonna fight over how much Elephants suck.

Hoochie Coochie Dancers: Nature’s Petrie Dish
Superhuman Vessels of Sexually Transmitted Disease That Can Make You Cum In Four Seconds. Sometimes it’s worth the risk.

Clown Pussy: Please Put Some Greasepaint On That Thing
I wouldn’t fuck me, why would I fuck this?
QED

Anyhoo I‘ll tell you about Wife 2, Stinkin’ Pete Woodlin, Doctor Morpheus, Lipstick and Sparkles the Chimp later.

Sink yer stakes deep and hard…
Yers,
Rev. Uncle Laffo

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

2005-07-03T11:52:00.000-07:00

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?

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

2005-06-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Smallpox and the Booger Box.

2005-05-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

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.

My Liver Has A Headache.

2005-05-04T11:37:00.000-07:00

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.
Yers,
Laffo

Neener, neener, neener

2005-04-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

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!

Moonshine and Ex-Wives of Mine

2005-04-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

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.

A Bouquet of Turds.

2005-04-27T11:25:00.000-07:00

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.