[. . . LOOP] The East Side Circus Presents: Clown & Toothless! [LOOP . . .]

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was chilly but the sun was out and I tried to take in as much as I could of the yellow glory. Took a look at the green grass, and the vision of it pops, never failing to perk my mind. Out through the backyard door soon teetered and stumbled a Drunken Clown, a rising smoke-massive lit cigarette held between his bullshit lips, one hand holding a phone to his ear to hear feedback on his bullshit and in the other hand a bullshit-enhancing beer can.

Keystone Light: The Choice For All Moronic Alcoholics.

It's like steroids except instead of making you bigger and better it makes you less comprehensible and far more irritating. If you drink enough of the stupid-water - overdose - you just might piss yourself silly. Proof? This Drunken Clown has the stains to show for it. For multiple occasions.

If you sit on the brown long couch where the Clown sleeps at night you've just been inducted as a proud new member of the "I Got Drunken Clown Piss All Over My Ass" Club.

Congratulations. Being a member of I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. is far more prestigious than going to the Mystery Spot of Santa Cruz. Sorry, there aren't bumper stickers yet available but feel free to take an empty semi-crushed beer can with you on your way out.

There are plenty.

In the backyard I was taking notice of the Clown stumbling his way over to a chair over to the right of me. I kept on photoshopping, not wanting the stench of beer sweats to drown me out of my creative endeavor. The J Buddha picture was in its final clicks. I looked at it thinking she won't be content with it but oh well, art is a subjective matter. J Buddha has seen the pictures on my Facebook and that's that. The process of clicking through to find the image is enough reason for me to do it and was very enjoyable indeed. Drunken Clown sat and continued his bitching and moaning and bullshitting to whomever was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. It was the Clown's aunt, poor thing. Drunken Clown bitched on and on and on about how much of a fuck-up his Toothless Meth-Head brother was, telling of a story about how Toothless went to the Philippines to continue being a complete fuck-up over there, completely fucking up his sister's and mistress' lives in tandem.

I, ever enraged by the simple mention of the addict apparent, chimed into Clown's dissertation on Toothless' Shabu Adventures in the Pearl of the Orient, to which he claimed Toothless Meth-Head was better off on U.S. soil . . .

"Well he was a total fuck-up here in the States too. He's a fuck-up there? He's a fuck-up everywhere" I reply, disgusted.

The Drunken Clown heard this and stumble-spun in his chair facing me.

"SHUT UP" the Clown said with a face of sluggish unease, too sluggish, impaired to give a decent expression. You know? Like the kind sober people can contribute? Or the kind that toddlers are able to portray?

There is no pause and I answer him straight "Well I was the one out here first if you don't like it go somewhere else."

Go be a Drunken Clown elsewhere.

I hear the Philippines is a nice place for fuck-ups.

The Clown no-sold it and continued with the bitching over the phone. Toothless this and Toothless that. Yes, I already know how thoroughly shabu-addicted Toothless and another brother - Magic Meth-Head - really are. So much so that they dollar-vulture every home with the same surname. Some bums beg for money. Other bums have complacent family members.

I prepped my computer, cane and tea [you know damn sure why I drink tea instead of . . .] to go back inside the playroom where my beloved music emanated from. A personally-created playlist entitled "Dig It" played on through shelf speakers. What is the source? An mp3 player that I cherish, containing feelings and memories I felt in absence of the the important life skill of socializing with people, in my long and still on-going time without friends. You have your buddies and I have the Typical Cats. You've got a night out with friends and I've just written a Cliche.

Minutes later I made my way to the kitchen where the Drunken Clown now sat at the dinner table, still bitching and bullshitting to the poor old lady aunt on the other end of the line. Clown looked me with a shit-faced smile and said

"OOhhkay . . . one more. .! . .?" referring to me retrieving for him another can of bullshit-enhancer from the garage fridge. He's easily over 5 cans in.

I stand stoic.

I stand stoic and tell him, "Nope, no more. I'm not gonna do it."

If Drunken Clown wants to overdose and further bless the holy piss couch with pure fuckin' alcohol stumble-flying from his flaccid nicotine & diabetic-debilitated penis he can do it of his own accord. There's NO way I'll be there for the assist.

I'd rather go to Mystery Spot. What is it like over there? I've never been. Does it stink of beer sweats like

[Whoa! Time-out! . . . I just scrolled up to check my writing and with what I saw I instantly realize that I am seeing the very same image, same few seconds in a dream I had nearly a year ago!!! I saw myself writing this exact piece! Okay. Play ball. Spiritual Freak-Out Time over.]

the home-base of the I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. Club?

I rounded my way towards the kitchen and looked at Nick the Slick & Donna-Ninja's water bowl out of habit making sure their bowls are filled. There was water in the bowl but to drive the point home I picked up the water bowl and mentioned "Nick, you need more water" then proceeded to replenish it with fresh H2O.

What is the point?

I would rather serve water to a dog than to serve alcohol to an alcoholic.

Soon after I went back into the playroom where my treasured music and super-important-write-write-station netbook computer was located.

I sat down, logged on to my blogger.com account and began typing . . .

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was . . .