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Topics - Eater of Clowns

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Well, it finally happened.  The fucker has been telling us to kill him for years and someone finally did it.  And boy did they ever do it.  Of course, we couldn't be the ones that did it.  We liked the rotten bastard too much and, let's face it, we're malicious enough cunts that keeping him alive was just funnier.  Some people just don't have senses of humor though, some people just don't have the capacity for fun, and we all know The Good Reverend had a talent for finding precisely that sort.

The day started like any other for our beloved Rain God.  He woke up and considered the toilet for a proper few minutes before, in a self control derived from malice, holding it in until he could cause serious damage to not only the plumbing system but also the psyches of his co-workers.  Then he yelled at nothing for 49 seconds.  What came after I'm actually rather repulsed by so I'll just skip to the important part.

Filthy Assistant, Jim, the inept engineers and the blowhards were all in on it.  They found out what badwrong fun is, the Good Reverend way, and they wanted in.  Or so they told him.  There was a Tea Party rally in the Holy City of Tucson that day, they told him.  It was time for them to all join in and shit some deranged hate on the mouthbreathers of their town.  Look, one said, we even have these fliers.

Now ordinarily the ruse would have been seen right through, but the lot of them were convening with the Spider and TGRR was all looped out on an extra dose or eight of pills that day.  We still aren't sure if he thought he was going to stomp on some teabagger tards or ridicule some pagans in the park or go yell at the Arizona wildfires.  So they arrived, this little entourage and the rabble was, as they say, roused.  Just before the whole thing came to a close, The Reverend's crew pointed at the mic just sitting there, waiting, and said to him "Do it.  This is the time."

All fucked up he walked to that podium and he grabbed the offending mic and opened up his gullet to allow a sermon to be sung.  But something was wrong.  They weren't angry, like they should be.  They weren't listening, even, they were just standing there, eyes hungry and bodies poised.

It's been a long time since anybody was drawn and quartered but suffice it to say the act, and sight ain't pretty.  When they hooked up each of The Good Reverend Roger's limbs to the backs of four Rascal scooters I don't think any of them were prepared for the surprising amount of horse power they provide.  He was torn grotesquely in the four directions of the compass and they all cheered, however briefly that victory lasted.  But of course their subsidized mobility assistance devices were strong enough to haul a land whale, so as he came apart at the seams, all contained therein catapulted out of him with the ferocity of even his most bowl shattering poomps.

The smell was horrible.  Fresh meat isn't supposed to stink like that.  They didn't know, like we do, that he'd been rotting on the inside for quite a while.  Everything was discolored and there was far, far more fecal matter than even I am comfortable with discussing.  It shorted the Rascals and it landed in the gaping mouths of the assembled Teabaggers.  Filthy Assistant had some unidentifiable stuff strike him in the eye.  He wears a patch over it know, not for blindness, but they say he sees things out of it that he just should not.

And that was how it ended, friends.

Discordian Recipes / Budweiser & Clamato: A Review
« on: May 31, 2011, 12:07:54 am »
It was following a lack of sleep and a long morning of bacon and driving that Blight and myself walked purposefully into a Connecticut liquor store.  Our pace was made by no ordinary determination to buy beer but actually a particular difficulty in moving through humidity so thick it tasted like ice cream flavored with the sins of the nearby casinos.  We did this shit for the gleeful demons who demanded malted beverage to slake a thirst primal, perverse, and acute.  There was no direction to the type of beer so much as there was a repetitive qualifier:  lots.

Blight and I made our way across an adequate selection discussing the intricacies of purchasing a drinkable choice without dropping enough cash to red flag ourselves as deeply pocketed criminals on every agency watch list in the state.  The cooler stacked up cases of vile waste and overpriced swill alike but for a small spot on the top shelf catching our eyes as we exited carrying our weight in cardboard, glass, and booze.  There were words that I could not comprehend, like a nightmare that feels real but defies description.  Budweiser was one.  A hated word.  And something else.

The grocery team was across the parking lot so we rendezvoused in the blank bland aisles with Richter, Leln, and Torte.  I stood there and I thought.  They tossed quantities of food in a cart never meant to be so burdened.  There was something wrong there that I could not shake.  Blight was gone as well, his mind left behind in that cooler.  We walked back.

Clamato.  That was it.  Budweiser and Clamato.  With salt and lime.  It was one of those comforting moments where we realize no, we are not mad, it is the world that is mad and this thought was mixed with the singular purpose of needing to buy this four pack of pure fucking absurdity.  Oh, and another 30 rack because fuck it.  The cashier saw us again and asked if we forgot something and I said “Yes, this.”  He confusedly scanned the can to find that they only rang up one at a time.  Nobody ever bought an entire four pack of this.  They weren’t even prepared for such an eventuality.

Subjecting ourselves to a mixture of piss beer, tomato juice and clam juice was one of those things that was done with such gusto that before I knew it Cram and Richter were outside shaking their cans with vigor and unconcern.  The tab clicked the concoction open and we sipped and we did not speak and we passed the can to the next and, unsurprisingly, it came rather quickly back.

It was at this time that another Discordian guest arrived.  He was handed the can and drank deeply and he turned and sprayed that amount in a fine mist.  Many described it as terrible.  This is not untrue, it is terrible.  It exists to be terrible.  Being terrible is the only fucking thing this could ever be and as such it succeeded so gloriously that it might be one of the most impressive beers I’ve had the distinct honor of guzzling with a very intense self loathing. 

I believe Cram said that he didn’t dislike it at first, but with each successive sip he hated it more distinctly.  It would explain why all but one can was abandoned entirely.  My can.  Because it had to be done.  And Cram was wrong, here.  With each successive sip I did not hate it more distinctly.  Rather, with each successive sip I hated myself more distinctly.  It is common to know regret following a long bit of excess revelry.  It is not common to know it immediately and fully, and continue with that same act by your own free will.  And for that, Budweiser & Clamato is a drinking experience like none other.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / RIP Cain
« on: May 16, 2011, 05:07:01 pm »
It is my sad duty to reports upon the death of a board regular, the political savvy legend Cain.  He passed away quietly in his sleep at the ripe old age of 27.

Friends and family close to the young man were asked about the circumstances of his death, described by the coroner as "perfectly clear and ordinary."  Nearly unanimously they spoke of a long standing, unspecified medical condition that struck its final blow as he lay in a restful evening in a quiet, secluded, cash-only motel.  They would look about hurriedly as though expecting unwelcome guests and urgently repeated that this was a family matter that was best not looked into by other parties.  When asked if the police were involved, they vehemently assured me that no, such a thing was left to a higher power.  I had no previous knowledge of Cain's associates being such spiritual folk.

Known for his in depth analysis of current events, Cain's online persona became even more secretive and erratic as of late.  He was noted for being absent for weeks, months at a time, then updating on a number of websites with a rapid fire series of pieces.  Several of them mentioned...REDACTED...  Curiously, a wildly different IP address was used for each of these occasions, and then for no longer than a day at a time.  It would seem his final days were filled with the world traveling and hunger for culture that would fit such a figure.

I prompted local doctor...REDACTED...for his opinion on the death of such a healthy young man.  He insisted, repeatedly, that this sort of thing was...REDACTED...a clear case of " cerebral embolism" before hastily shutting the door.

We'll miss Cain, of course, not only for the insight he provides into our complex web of a world but for the humor and wit he shared with us all.  Memorial arrangements will be at the...REDACTED...and his assets.  Refreshments are to follow provided by an anonymous well wisher.

Aneristic Illusions / Mike Rowe Senate Testimony
« on: May 13, 2011, 03:32:39 am »
Yeah, the guy from Dirty Jobs, and the voice from everything else.

It's a well written and important highlight of the skilled labor problem America is either having or very soon will.

I encourage you to support these efforts, because closing the skills gap doesn't just benefit future tradesmen and the companies desperate to hire them. It benefits people like me, and anyone else who shares my addiction to paved roads, reliable bridges, heating, air conditioning, and indoor plumbing.

Starts off a bit slow with a personal anecdote, but worth a read at the end.

Bring and Brag / EoC Nessie Extract
« on: May 12, 2011, 04:06:48 am »
By request, all of my contributions to the More Futuristic Fun Than You Really Wanted, part I of V thread.

"At first I thought it was, well yeah, classic Suu."

I can't speak to the rumors.  I've heard the talk, that she isn't dead at all.  That what happened was ascension, more like.  Becoming something greater and everlasting, maybe even divinity.  Ask the followers and I'm sure they'll be glad to tell you.  Thing is, this one took off.  It grew like no tall tale has ever done, and faster.  What I can speak to is what actually happened, what led to the picture that set eyes unfocused and the jaws of hardened men dangling in disbelief.

It started with a trip to Jo Ann's.  Row after row of fabric, all so common, so everyday.  She was about to give up hope for a fruitful trip when underneath some mundane roll of cotton a spark caught her eye.  In respect of her memory I'll forego describing it, failing to do it justice.  It spoke to her, Suu later said.  Divine, perhaps.  Demonic, possibly.  To hear her tell it, that is.  To the rest of us, it looked like a run of the mill psychological snap.  That day, she bought a few yards.  Nothing extravagant.

It disappeared.  Like that drink after the day from hell, like your favorite book, Suu devoured the cloth.  But there was no discernible product from her labor.  Someone asked her where it all went and she just glared and said she needed to get more.  She did get more.  And then more after that.  Yards and yards, days and weeks of work until finally she'd bought the place out.  We all hoped it would end after that last trip, but seeing her clutch those precious remaining yards we all should have known better.

The last time we all saw her it was the evening of some PD outing or another.  The way Luna and Richter talked, they had to drag her out of her place.  The whole night, I remember, she was just not there.  She was distracted and mumbling crazed talk about period garb, colors, stitches, authenticity.  We were being treated like distractions to her or, more appropriately, obstacles.  Somewhere in the revelry we lost her.  She must have gone home, we figured.

Her neighbors called the authorities after a few days of discomforting silence, both from her sewing machine and the music generally aimed in wrath at their apartment.  They had the landlord unlock the place, to a scene of beauty and horror both indescribable.  Everything was garbed.  Her pots and pans, the futon, a toothbrush.  The floor, a dresser.  Her spatula wore a gown that would bring envy from the haughtiest of queens.  Each piece, from the most ornate to the most elegantly simple, perfect but for one small spot on each.

What remained of Suu was a husk hunched before her beloved table.  Where her skin had been borrowed for her masterpiece, the fabled cloth replaced it.

Short notice!?  Fuck it, it's curling.

3 hour lesson in Bridgewater.  Fucking curling.

April 30th or May 1st from 2pm to 5pm.  CURLING, MOTHERFUCKERS.

$35.  Curling.  Three hours of it in Bridgewater.  CURLING.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / WOO! GO NB!
« on: April 19, 2011, 10:11:24 pm »
They passed the Cape Wind project.  America's first off shore wind platforms will be on Nantucket sound.  It's expected to bring 40,000 jobs over ten years, and a major staging ground for the whole project will be my hometown!

Now all they need to do is build the commuter rail connection between Boston and New Bedford and my city will be significantly less of a shithole!

 :D :D

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Huck Finn and Robots
« on: February 10, 2011, 06:12:50 am »
No, really.

This group, in a bizarre and hilarious protest of the recent decision to change "nigger" to "slave" in a new edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, is proposing a short printing wherein "nigger" is replaced with "robot."

Mark Twain once said, "The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter."

We couldn't agree more. And that right word is "robot."

Or Kill Me / Willful Mysteries
« on: February 03, 2011, 11:07:23 pm »
Mickey is nearing thirty and his roommate is moving out on him, in with his long time girlfriend.  He's working three jobs and can barely make their meager rent, so there's no way he'll be able to afford living solo or find a cheaper place.  So he's moving back home.  We're not exactly living in Manhattan - so why can't this dude pay for rent?

Alex has a lovely wife, two kids, and a spotless little home on a nice street.  And he's fucking miserable.  He comes into work 30 hours of overtime, at least, every week.  He pulls in good money, and yet he claims he's always broke, so this overtime is necessary.

Jeanine attends weight watchers meetings.  Like her strictly catholic upbringing dictates, she's guilty as hell when that weekly weigh-in doesn't go down, and she hates herself for it.

All three of these people have something in common.  I actually know all three of these people, and I do think quite highly of them.  I'm incredulous as to how they can convince themselves that they can't afford to pay rent or work reasonable hours.

Mickey and Alex are similar.  Both of them, several times in the same conversation, have stated their precise problems and not even realized it.  Mickey bought $200 worth of comic books last week.  Alex just bought a $400 watch on eBay, and sold it for profit - which he will then put into another watch, and another, and he doesn't always break even on them.

I think Jeanine has it toughest.  She's a sensitive one, and not a very strong one either.  She did great in the weight loss program overall, she really did.  Yet now that she's maintaining instead of losing, every week it's the same song and dance:  there was candy or cookies someone brought into work and she couldn't stop eating them.  So she's down as hell on herself for it, and she feels bad for the rest of the week instead, well, just not eating them.  But it's the wording here that's frustrating:  she couldn't stop, or it's her co-workers' fault for tempting her with the garbage she shouldn't eat.

It opens up infinite avenues of debate, of course, on the addictive nature of eating or buying things, as well as the entire process of losing weight.  That isn't the issue here.  The issue is that we have people who convince themselves that their money somehow just disappears, or that the scale goes up of its own accord, and their quality of life suffers from it.

Losing the freedom of your own space, sacrificing the entirety of your life to your job, feeling bad about eating crap you shouldn't - they're the prices paid for a comic book, a watch, a cookie.  I actually have nothing personal against this, so long as you are actively willing to pay that price.  If you think "well if I buy this booze, I'm going to get fat from the calories and broke from the cost," you need to be okay with the consequences of that before you go through with it.  Props to you.

The alternative is creating a willful mystery.  You refuse to face the sad facts that a short term poor decision has long term consequences.

Or Kill Me / Looking Down Your Nose While Doing a Headstand
« on: January 20, 2011, 10:37:35 pm »
A lean young man in corduroys and Pumas waits outside a Starbucks sporting as much awful haircut as his overpriced salon can provide.  Walking in, a former classmate recognizes him and asks him what he's doing standing outside.  "Pft, I don't drink Starbucks," he replies with a sneer that could infuriate sloths.

Across the parking lot in his beat up old F-150, a grizzled middle aged man sits, idling while his wife runs inside.  She asked him if he wanted anything and he said, "Pft, you know I don't drink that pussy crap."

You've talked to both of these motherfuckers before, and yeah, depending who you are, you are guaranteed to like one over the other.  It doesn't change the fact that both of them did exactly the same thing, for different reasons and with different words, but exactly the same thing.  Something is offered them, a beer, a coffee, a burger, and they refuse.  But they don't just refuse, they refuse in a way to imply they see themselves as better than whatever the subject is.

Be it "sorry, my tastes are too sensitive to allow anything less than seasonal microbrews past these lips," or "you're not a real man unless you drink Jack Daniels," they're letting you know, in no uncertain terms that types of people enjoy that thing and they are not one of those types of people.  Yet somehow, it's always the former that sets eyebrows raising.  Yeah it's easy to hate on pretentiousness when it's about class and high brow bullshit, but that doesn't make it any less pretentious to claim you're more grizzled for drinking crap booze.  It's the same trap.

Sorry, motherfucker, but you aren't any more real for drinking Budweiser than some jerkoff is refined for drinking Sam Adams.  If you're going to pass it up, do it for your own tastes and don't try to pull some reason why you're oh so much better than that.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / A Very PD Holiday
« on: December 22, 2010, 11:43:51 pm »

It’s Christmas in Tucson,
And in Portland it’s Yule.
Cram’s getting his Moose on,
‘Til there’s blood in his stool.
Even I this year popped my Moosemas cherry,
With drinking and Zardoz at the Monestary.

In those Europ-ey places
They’ve got Sinterklaus.
He’s eating kids’ faces
In his gingerbread house.
I don’t speak Dutch so don’t be a hater.
If my myth’s wrong just blame Google translator.

In SoCal it’s raining,
Just pouring it fierce.
White Christmas is straining
Against mudslides and fears.
Course it’s not like it snows in those sunny spots,
Though tell that to Pickle in his Florida shorts.

Then there’s our Scot peers
And those Englishmen close.
They’re deep frying reindeers,
Served with sauteed Welsh toes.
I’ve always heard Brit cuisine is an odd one,
I think it’s because they’re descended from goblins.

We’ve a spag-scattered globe,
What with Aussies like Lys.
And Slaknet who knows where
That mystery man lives?
The point is we’re all in our Holiday moods.
To some it means screaming, to others new shoes.

What I’m trying to say,
Oh my PD’ers dear.
Is that starting today
Spread Discordian cheer.
It’s almost like happiness of the ordin’ry sort,
Except it’s hating on rev’lers, and cruelty for sport!

They’re not deserving of
Their gifts under their trees.
They need a serving of
Lead pipes to their knees.
I hope that Santa carries ‘round something sharp
To cut himself loose from my trap with the tarp.

On hustlers and rev’rends!
On hipsters and punners!
On artists and madmen!
On crunchers of numbers!
On to your wintry festivals all kind!
‘Tis the season, so go fuck with some minds!


There’re spags round the fireplace,
Hanging up their stockings,
They’ve met up in meatspace,
For Holiday mockings.
BadBeast says some shit like “blimey oi govnah”
We can’t understand him, but BB we love ya.

That Santa guy’s finally
Been taken some care of.
Those Nessies are grimey,
But the snow keeps the slime off.
‘Cause the Southampton horrors ate Rudolph et al,
And a Templar’s put Santa’s hat on his metal.

But wait what’s that racket,
Coming up the chimney?
“I’m telling you faggots,
I’ve got gasoline, see?”
Our dear old Enrico wants to light up the fire,
But burning the place down isn’t what they desire!

“Unless it is, of course,”
A voice came from somewhere.
They screamed until hoarse.
One said, “dynamite’s no fair!”
So many ideas to start up that first spark,
It’s too bad we can’t just light it with snark.

Though it didn’t much matter,
In the end it got lit.
And ECH made a platter,
Of some de-licious shit.
So we argue and revel and laugh with some brews,
Try this beer by Squiddy!  And this one is Suu’s!

Discord is the spirit,
Among different folk.
Let each other hear it,
But it’s all the same joke!
Be it Moosemas or Christmas, Festivus or Yule,
It’s time to bring mindfucks from high upon fools.

The year at this place is,
Well, it’s winding right down.
So silence your faces!
And hear Eater of Clowns!
PD is for fun and for serious havoc,
And all of this butthurt, no sir I won’t have it.

On WOMPers and writers!
On analysts and teachers!
On students and fighters!
On occupiers and creatures!
On to your PD revelry once more,
For again ‘tis the season to show all what for!


Ofuk not again,
the spags said together,
this poem’s a pain,
give us a breather.
But the holiday season comes like it not,
so shut the fuck up and read up this rot.

So what the hell happened,
to PDers in ’12.
Well we wrote some crap and
mostly we yelled.
The tumbleweeds heard it if no one else,
and even they were shocked by RWHN and Stellz.

There will be no tree,
for Garbo and Pix.
They’ll light a bush or three,
because they’re less phallic.
Roger and ECH can just stand there and watch,
but they cannot help because of their crotch.

And what about Twid,
whose faith this offends?
He knows that I kid,
so spare your Depends.
Ironing out what happens to Waffle,
I doubt he’ll read this PD poem awful.

The Marrowman offers
me a few new rhyme schemes.
“One bone for my coffers,
to stop these grade school themes!”
L-M-N-O is worse than the bone man,
for making New England some scary land.

Hang holist’s stocking,
but what the fuck’s this?
It’s far too shocking,
which one of them’s his?
A h0list, a holis+, a ho1ist and,
fuck if I’m typing that whole list again.

On beaders and crocheters!
On writers and garbers!
On larpers and players!
On mixers and warblers!
On and remember during this holiday chore,
There’s no better time to punish fuckers galore!

GASM Command / GeoGASM
« on: October 29, 2010, 02:09:56 am »
Geocaching - A community-driven hobby wherein people input coordinates into GPS devices that lead them to small boxes in remote or hidden areas.  The boxes contain an assortment of small items, trinkets, or note pads.  Finders of a geocache are to place something of theirs into the box and taking something out in exchange.  They can leave messages on notepads, etc, then they put the box back where they found it.  There are communities online where people can report back if they found the box, if it was difficult, or if it was missing, etc.

The community started in the relatively early days of GPS devices, before they were as ubiquitous as they are now.  It's still a nichey activity, with lots of caches being on hiking trails, etc.  Recently, GPS devices are easily available in the form of our very favorite tools of Big Brother - smart phones.

I think we should target the GeoCachers.  By necessity, the community is tight knit, keeping track of existing caches and updating them.  That means recurring themes in the boxes could possibly be remarked upon in discussions.  The activity also attracts the curious - a cache might have any number of otherwise pointless items, but they're basically buried treasure troves.

Pope cards and meme bombs are the stand by for things like this, so maybe this is an offshoot of postergasm.  Here, though, they're placed where the individual is specifically looking.  And on top of it all, we can have some fun looking for geocaches.  Hell, if we learn enough about the community, maybe we can make a few of our own.

So, is this something people would be interested in?  Which meme bombs might speak best to this group?  Does anyone know more about the activity than what I've outlined here?

Props to Richter for prodding me with a polearm to post this.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Attn: Charley Brown
« on: October 20, 2010, 05:31:04 am »
For a long time this has been bothering me, and I'm finally going to get it off my chest:

Your avatar.  You...

look way too similar to my dad:

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / EoC's World of Dispatching
« on: September 30, 2010, 12:32:55 am »
I've been meaning to make this thread for a loong time.  It will be a depository for all the fucked up, depressing, and sometimes hilarious shit that I come across in my job.  Sometimes it'll come a few times a night, sometimes not for a few weeks, but I'll try to keep it running.


A woman called today.  She'd received a notice in the mail that someone would be coming to pick her up and "deliver" her to court for money she owed.  Basically it was a notice that a warrant was out for her arrest.  I told her to get in touch with our warrant division, which unfortunately won't be available until tomorrow, but that as far as I knew nobody would be acting on that tonight.  She was upset.  Nearing tears.  Her voice quivered and she half-whispered, "I just think it's ridiculous, for eighty-eight dollars."

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