This is one fucked-up world. It is.

Because of us.

The usual right-wing rhetoric has been turned to Max Output. The shit is getting deep. Although this is not a purely political post, I still dare you to keep reading.

Here’s a few of the worst lies making the rounds and prompting migraine headaches for a bunch of people who know a lie when they hear one.

• Donald Trump actually said out loud that guns don’t pull their own triggers, people do. But that’s only part of his stance on gun control. He said “You have to know, there’s mental illness out there.”
• Thanks for that, Donald. You should know, right? But Trump is so crude and sexist that he’s sent a public, spoken-in-front-of-God-and-everyone message to Israel that they should deny entry into their country the women he’s been saying hate this country. He said, “They hate Israel.” This has never happened before in the recorded history of this country. No president would, no matter how hateful he felt toward members of Congress, ever have said such lies. Especially not during a run-up to an election; it would have been political poison. Trump has lowered the standards of every possible government function to the point where it doesn’t matter that he’s a clown and very disturbed.
• Climate Change, or global warming, is (a) a myth; (b) not man-made, (c) not as bad as liberal alarmists make it out to be. The truth is that none of that shit matters anymore because highly educated men and women and the evidence all scream that it’s time to plan for the worst. If you saw the weather forecast and there was a heavy snow warning, what would you do? You’d refit your plans and schedule accordingly, because no one wants to get into an accident, stranded in the car or the airport, or worse. Right? We’re being given something far worse than a heavy snow warning, and the fucking president and right-wing clowns, even scientists, are telling us it’s “fake news”. Or, if they do acknowledge it, they blame it on liberals and illegal immigrants.
• Hillary Clinton is still guilty of shit you and the rest of the world have never even heard of, plus everything she’s been investigated for and cleared of. Fucking clowns beating a dead horse because they need every lie at their disposal to avoid losing a general election after Trump has pissed all over the place.

***

Of course, clowns are everywhere. It not like you can avoid them. The left has plenty of them too. When they respond to a question during a debate and then are asked to qualify that answer, it’s fucking hilarious; they freeze, and their eyes get wide, and they ask, “who, me?”

Oh, frog shit, that’s funny. They talk in general about plans. Plans that will halt global warming, save us from an increasingly shifty economy, stop Russia from running this country by proxy (talking to you, Moscow Mitch) and by God don’t ya know, these clowns attack each other, and they’re not clever at all, and we’re hip to Bernie and his percentage bullshit followed by a “people shouldn’t have to…”

I hated the bastard last time and he ain’t said or done a fuckin thing to change my mind. When he says the word “legislation,” I gag. Not the vomit kind of gag, just the gagging kind of gag where you’re so disgusted you can’t even throw up in your mouth a little bit. Because it’s bullshit. All of it, it’s bullshit, it’s bullshit, it’s bullSHIT!

Fuckin douchebag clowns can’t get their shit together.

And what the fuck were they going to go to Israel for anyway, when, if any one of them had been thinking, they’d have seen it was going to fire up the Oval Office fart machine?

Look, I don’t want to come down on the Dems here; I truly hoped we were better than this. And I fucking don’t care what happens, or what he does or tweets, because we know Donald Trump is a nutter, that he’d fuck a Cabbage Patch doll, then offer it a cheque. I get it, we all do. What we need to do is stop this tripping over our own words bullshit and get our act together and vote this glory hole-mouthed dickhead out of our building.

You think this is too strong? Does it offend you?

It’s been earned a thousand times over. He brought this on himself. If he gets a second term – if McConnell sticks around without flipping on his back – we’re all fucked.

I hate it all enough for me and you both, okay? But you can’t stop being offended by these men and their scary-as-fuck racist women who, I swear to God, are more vicious than Reinhard Heydrich, Joseph Mengele and Pol Pot combined. You get numb after all this time, and that’s normal. It’s human. A failing we just somehow got burdened with. But I’m begging you to fight it. Contact your favorite candidate. Remind them that you had high hopes for them and they’re fucking up. Fuck, why not? I’m sick of this political bullshittery that’s been going on. Don’t get complacent around clowns.

Because clowns are not funny, and never to be taken lightly. Remember “It Part Two” is due in theatres. Remember that sick piece of shit John Wayne Gacy.

I know, I know. It was really funny, in the movie “Real Men” when John Ritter and James Belushi are in an alley and Belushi asks, “Who are these clowns?” and a gang of clowns coming to kill them walk into view. Yeah, the whole movie sucked except for that lonely one-liner-sight gag.

But I remember that scene. And if you have by any chance stuck with me through this F-BOMB-filled post, then you know you have to know why I remember that one scene from an obscure and dreadful movie you’ve never heard of.

Don’t Send In The Clowns

It’s no joke that clowns are bad news. Seriously. When my ex was pregnant with our first child, she got a shitload of clown shit at the baby shower and I kid you not. Clown figurines. A clown dresser lamp. A painting. A clown marionette, for shit’s sake. Clown pillows. A kid’s size clown chair. And we thought, okay. So my ex put it all in the nursery. When our daughter was maybe ten months to a year old, I’d already noticed that her room was always cold. I’d have to turn the heat up to where it was unbelievable in the rest of the flat, just to keep her warm.

Then, at eleven on the night of 23 December, 1984, my wife and I were in our bedroom getting all frisky and shit. Her back was to the door to the hallway. It was quiet. An icy drop from a daytime high of near 50 °F during the afternoon and evening had it near the freezing mark by then. Weirdness happens on such inhospitable nights, when one really just takes simple comfort being inside.

So quiet. We were less than 70 meters from Route 100 in Glen Burnie. No traffic. Dead silence. And that’s creepy by itself, on a road where no hour is too indecent for folks to escape from Pasadena.

Well, something walked down the hallway toward our room. We could hear the soft padding of feet on the pile carpeting. It walked right up to my ex, right behind her, and stopped.

Of course, we stopped as well. Got up and ran naked into the living room.

Trembling. Terrified. In shock, I lit a Camel and knew even the full effect of the unfiltered nicotine wouldn’t help me. The inevitable, “Did you hear that?”

You know. Like everyone does when something fucked-up and beyond understanding happens. Because of course she heard it which, naturally, is why we both ran into the living room in the first place.

“Yeah,” she said, which didn’t help my cowardly ass one bit. So, like everyone else also does, “What did you hear?”

“Footsteps,” she said in a mortified whisper. And after only two years of marriage, I truly believe that this question was the beginning of her understanding, a dawning, if you will, that she had married a fucking idiot.

But even if that was the end of the story, and it ended up with us sleeping on the sofa bed, it’s already a foreign thing to you, because you weren’t there and maybe nothing like that ever happened to you.

But that’s not the end of the story. Because my stories never end so simply. You remember the post about the cat? That loveable fucker knew shit. And something didn’t like that, and kicked that cat sideways across a deck to show its displeasure.

And I know you have read the bolero hat post. And if you thought it was just me being driven mad by a can of Armour Vienna sausages in fucking barbecue sauce, or that I had a mental health history or whatever, well, I wish all that were true. I wish none of the supernatural shit in my life ever happened. But you can bank on this: I hate the fact that this ain’t where the story ends. Because the next moment had to be one of the worst things I have ever had forced upon me.

As I drew heavily on the Camel, and all was dead silence, something jumped on our bed. And no, there wasn’t anyone in there. We had seen nothing. And if you’re thinking it was our combined hysteria, you can just please open up your mind, or go read something from a sponsored blog written by someone whose picture takes up half the fucking page, someone who is in love with themselves but won’t admit it because they’re paid to write a diary about how conflicted their life is but leave you all choked up because there’s always hope.

My God what skullfuckery. That’s not really a proper word, by the way, (but ask Dj Shadow, who knows better) but I can’t always tell you horrible shit with proper words, and I’m not being paid to do this, and even if ads appear on my posts, I have no control over them, and if I did, you’d like me even less for what I’d have there. This ain’t some world full of roses and green grass and not-so-poisoned fruit. It’s hellish. It’s a place of evil and disease and poisoned food and untimely death, and I won’t give you much hope. If I do, it’s barely there at all. And it’s always surrounded by evil and a hard ride.

Besides, I’m an asshole. I don’t pray outside of abortion clinics for the end of the very thing I fight for. The only fucking thing that matters. Freedom.

That night in 1984 hammered home to me the fact that everything evil in my memory so far, especially that shadow on my wall and the things done to my body and mind were all too real and would never, ever stop. Because whatever it was that jumped on the bed was no ghost of no little kid come to visit. The springs creaked so loud that I never could put that sound together with the soft padding of feet on the carpet. Whatever it was, it had serious weight. And it was jumping repeatedly on our fucking bed. So we waited until it stopped. Ran in there, grabbed clothes, got dressed in the living room. I went downstairs to warm up the car while she bundled our daughter up. We went to her parent’s house. Sat up all night drinking coffee and listening to momma, who was wise about such things. Turned out, she was up from a nightmare and knew without us calling that we were going to be there.

“Get Rid Of All The Clowns”

She sat across the table and told her daughter, “I told you after the shower to get rid of all that clown stuff,” and I asked why, because I had made no such connection.

“Because clowns aren’t real,” she said simply. Clowns, she said, don’t represent anything. They don’t even have a real-life counterpart. You can dress up as Superman, but at least he’s a man, albeit from another world. Not real, but a representative of a living character from fiction. Like Dick Tracy. Iron Man. Captain America. Clowns? Nothing. Therefore any item. Any marionette. Even a painting…can be cursed, attached by or to, a demon.

That one hit me hard. I knew in my heart that she was right. But I had not yet become an amateur demonologist. I was from that night on. She had this nightmare, and in it, despite us living on the third story, three clowns (three is a number significant in demonology as it mocks the Holy Trinity) were standing on thin air outside our daughter’s window, peering in and scaring her. In the dream, Beth was standing up in her crib, crying hysterically.

We followed momma’s advice. My ex did not want to throw it all away and so asked a neighbor who also had a small child if she wanted it. All of it, in a big box. To my mind that was a sick thing to do, but okay. And no further incidents happened in that flat. To this day, the one thing that I know for certain will petrify me on sight is a fucking clown. Working in a dollar store years later for part-time money, I was facing the door one night when a clown in full makeup and costume walked in. To my utter shame, I froze, mouth open, eyes wide but vision tunneled by pinpricks for pupils and she said, “What? I’m just a clown.” Fuck that. And fuck you too, lady. As far as I was concerned she could have been there to steal shit or rob us. I watched every step, every move. It should have made her uncomfortable. It should have made her leave.

But the one thing you can never do before a clown or a demon is show fear. She wasn’t a demon, but I could not fucking intimidate her. I had already given her full and shameful knowledge of my own fear. That gives away all of your power.

That’s the same dynamic with clowns like Trump. Goons who are also clowns will try to divide people who could otherwise combine to take away their power to humiliate and terrify.

What I’m asking for from you is this.

Knock off the Facebook hating and spreading of fear. Stop being part of it. Stick to funny cat videos or do political matters properly, and fan the flames no more. And together we can and we will throw out every clown who has endorsed death, poison and lies.

If you want hope, there it is. It’s really that simple. Not easy. Simple. Expect election interference and all manner of skullfuckery. Expect it and vote and demand numbed-out friends to vote. We can win our country back if we do the right thing and vote, thereby stuffing the clowns in a box where they’ll stay until it comes time for them to go to Hell.