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Me, my bitch and the drunken clown.

I am in love.

That pure, spring is in the air kind of love, not the hair-pulling, “spit in my mouth” type of lust you see in porn.

I’m talking innocent here.

Gracie is my bitch.

True, she belongs to someone else, but dats ma biotch!

She is also a dog.

Something about dogs this week.

I am in Starbucks and there is another dog in the store.

Gracie looks like a miniature doberman pinscher, but smaller that whats in your head right now.

And she is into me.

She has been licking my elbow for the last half hour.

In certain 3rd world countries, that is as binding as wedding vows. (Although it saves me the bridal price of 3 goats.)

But, as with any true and pure love, there are issues.

Gracie likes to fart.

Maybe like is the wrong word.

Must, must fits better.

Gracie must fart.

It is an odd ironic twist that my nose, broken several times over the years, has a wide collection of smells that are denied me.

With the exception of rectal potpourri, and especially that variety of canine eau de toilette they are so well known for.

Eh, I’ve dated worse.

She isn’t cheating, has a drug problem, crazy ex, or 10 kids without fathers. (I am assuming here, but she seems like a good dog.)

But there is someone trying to break us up.

Gracie’s owner.

No clue what her name is, but I want to call her “Hot mess”.

Except that the word Hot feels odd in this sentence.

She’s a heavy girl, not that that’s unattractive, but this is that unhealthy kind of heavy.

The makeup was done by a drunken clown on a meth binder with Hodgkins.

In a very old woman, iffy crazy makeup would be somewhat excuseable.

But the drunken clown appears to be an ill-kept 22.

There is a low level murmur that has been going on for awhile now.

Except when she suddenly becomes aware of Gracie and me.

“Gracie, NO!” and yanks her over beside her, then goes back to being oblivious as Gracie comes back to me, begins licking my elbow, and farting one more time.

It is my sincere hope that Gracie does not shit on the cushion beside me.

Who knows how long the drunk clown has had her in here?

I am interrupted from my musings by the fact that my coffee has cooled just enough to drink without blistering my mouth.

There is an almost orgasmic delight in that first sip of a properly done pour over with Ethiopian Yirgacheffe beans. (And this is with clothing on, go figure.)

Mmmmmmm… coffee.

Gracie seems to share my excitement and snuggles up.

It is a good moment to exist in.

Even the drunken clown minds her own for that moment.

Which is good.

Sometimes, you just need that moment.

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Posted by on August 27, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Riding a pale meth-horse

A few thoughts on armageddon.

When the end comes, and trust me, its coming, it won’t be what you think.

Zombie holocaust? Nope. Nuclear war? Not a chance.

Homeless clowns.

Most chilling fucking thing I have ever witnessed.

Let me paint you a scene.

I am off work, unlocking my bike.

And then I hear the screaming.

“F-YOU, YOU M-FING M_FERS!”

Stop.

Who do you see in your head?

Who says this?

You are thinking homeless meth-head, right?

You are only half right.

Across the street, stomping and swearing her unwashed ass around bus stop…

Is a HOMELESS CLOWN METH-HEAD!

I may shit myself and have a heart attack.

This is hands down the most terrifying thing I have ever seen.

I am not sure how I got here, but I am crouched down behind some bikes locked to a fence.

This is horrible.

The “Pucker factor” of seeing a homeless clown meth-head far exceeds 10 right now.

I am so clenched at this point I could crush pool balls with my asscheeks.

Watching this horror of nature stomp around the bus stop and scream is like something either out of a horror film or Revelations.

Who is like the Beast? Who can make war like the Beast?

So, now that I have offended everyone I ever went to Catholic school with, you poor tortured

bastards, let me bring my entire blasphemous witticisms full circle.

On Judgement day, once the horn blows, armies of homeless meth-head clowns will descend upon on us like locusts.

And at the head of that army, Kris Jenner, also known as “Babylon, mother of Harlots and abominations in the world.” (I think I am dead right on this one.)

Whew! That got a little long winded, sorry about that.

It was a long walk, for such a small drink, but one I am willing to make. (There are like 5 people I know who will get this.)

Anyway, while I am not totally afraid of clowns, in a purely “Grown ass man” sense, but a homeless meth-head clown is a little too much for the senses.

Its overwhelming, like a visual brain-freeze.

And the only fix for it is to hunker down and just wait for it to pass.

This too shall pass.

So, once I stopped being terrified and hiding, I began to watch the vile little scene going on across the street. (I had my bike ready to take off just in case Babylon saw me and gave me the bulls rush. I am curious, but not stupid.)

Most of her rage, and there was a LOT of it, was directed at 2 people on the corner who were pushing a broken lawn mower.

Which should have tipped me off.

So the clown is pissed at the other two homeless meth-heads who may or may not have stolen her broken lawn mower. (For the record, they were not dressed as clowns.)

There are some of you who are right now asking “How do you know they are homeless?”

Because, WHO ELSE would push around a broken lawn mower.

Everyone else throws that shit away in the trash.

Which is where the homeless find it.

However, even the drug addled denizens of alleyways can only push a broken mower around until they figure out that it is not worth shit.

And that is when the homeless meth-head clown will get it back.

 

 
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Posted by on June 19, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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