A Bloated Pedophile in Clown Makeup

A Bloated Pedophile in Clown Makeup

Oh. A new follower on my twitter page. Emily McDemilly. Let’s check out her bio.

“Life’s too short to have regrets.”

Oh, shut up, Emily. Everybody’s a philosopher. You’re supposed to have regrets. That’s what makes you human. Maybe you shouldn’t have let that Iranian Prince stick it in your pooper behind The Sahara Tent. Maybe you shouldn’t have cracked your mom’s head open on the bathroom sink after she stole your girlfriend. Maybe you wish you had eaten the blue pill. Because this reality is a shit show! But those regrets are what gives you character. It’s what makes you interesting, Emily. Life’s too hard to not make mistakes. Stop pretending you’re fuckin’ perfect… But thanks for following.


Let’s pretend your mind is not an ocean of thought, but the water in a swimming pool. And that pool is dirty. You try to keep it clean, but the elements conspire to dilute your visibility. But still, you try. You skim away the wind blown detritus and dead insects every day. You clean the filter and sterilize the water. Maybe, one day, this water can be purer than Lake Minnetonka.

As the years pass, you come to terms with this dirty pool. And, that maybe, you should stop trying to clean it. Just look at what’s floating on the surface. A whoopee cushion you received on your tenth birthday. The cleavage of your second grade teacher, Miss T. A high school party sucker punch. And, yep. There it is. Your exploded lip.

And what of the stuff you can’t see? All the crap that has sunk to the bottom. You’ve fished some of that stuff out. Let’s see. There was that rubber chicken tied inside of a extra large condom. Bigfoot’s foot. Eh, not so big. There was that canister of dicks and that crate of cunts and that casket of assholes. Remember the noseless carcass in the prom dress? You didn’t invite her. You didn’t ask for any of this shit. But it’s there. And then some.

You walk by the deep end and remember that party when you pulled out a bloated pedophile in clown makeup. It freaked out everybody. Nobody could understand that it wasn’t your idea to find a bloated pedophile in clown makeup! Oh, the humanity! All the Stepford Wives were sobbing like little bitches. It’s just a dead pedophile, right? You don’t understand why they are so upset. Didn’t they say they hated pedophiles? Cry babies.

You walk by the shallow end of the pool. You can see to the bottom. Here, you can cherry pick the nice things and ignore the offensive ones. Hey! It’s your old Nerf football! You loved that football. You played with that thing in the house, in the yard, in the mother fuckin’ streets. (Car!!) Like Linus and his blanket, you two were inseparable. Oh! And look over there. It’s a dead baby in a Cosby sweater. Hmm. Yeah, you better ignore that.


BURPHOLE and THE PUNDIT grab seats on an outside table of a coffee house’s patio. This is there first meeting. They awkwardly glance at each other. Eyebrows are raised. Throats are cleared. Shoulders relax and legs are stretched. Finally, words…


THE PUNDIT: Sure. You gotta start somewhere.

B: What’s that saying? Every fisting starts with a single finger?

TP: What? No.

B: The road to stripping begins with an uncle’s touch?

TP: Uhn-uh.

B: Every river bank anal rape begins with a Confederate flag?

TP: Negative. I believe the saying your referring to is, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

B: Right. That’s it.

TP: But I like your sayings better.

B: Thanks.

They both look out towards the day. Eyes unfocused. Minds unfocused. Lives. Unfocused.

TP: Every horrible fart begins with a fat, Mexican mother?

B: Eh. It’s OK. Go deeper.

TP: The road to comedy starts with a father’s slap?

B: Ah. Now you’re getting it.

TP: Walking in clown shoes begins with a bottle of Rohypnol and a windowless van?

B: Whoa. That’s fuckin’ great! Well done, sir.

TP: Thanks. This is going to be fun…

A small dog wanders over between the two men’s table and the entrance of the coffee shop and decides its time to take a shit. A twenty something year old woman removes a plastic bag from her purse and stands next to the dog.

B: I hope this isn’t an omen.

TP: Hey. Why don’t you find a park or an empty lot. This is a fucking restaurant. People are eating. I don’t want to witness your dog taking a dump right next to me. What if I was eating a chocolate croissant or something. That’s disgusting.

The young woman picks up the turd and then the dog and quickly exits the scene.

WOMAN: You’re an asshole!

TP: I know. But at least I’m not an asshole shitting on the sidewalk next to a restaurant. But I can come by later and pinch one off next to your kitchen table if you want. I mean, I know this isn’t a competition, isn’t that what assholes do?

B: Is that what assholes do?

TP: Yep. Assholes shit on things. That’s what they do.

B: I see… Well, that’s one’s mystery solved…

TP: Word.


A friend of mine excitedly told me they might make a television show of her workplace. Why would that excite her? Why would that excite anyone?

I wouldn’t want to relive work from the comfort of my Old Milwaukee induced haze as the same petty argument I heard Bambi and Misty have earlier that day wash over me from the beautiful escape of my thirty-two inch flat screen. No thank you.

I prefer to treat work as if a sadistic German woman on steroids is violating me with a girthy, black, eighteen inch dildo. I take it as I turn my attention to the horizon. My anus might be prolapsing, but I’m not really there.

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