Tornaders and CabbageTown is Wrecked.

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.

A Delightful New Work for Youngsters.

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

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

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

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)

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?