So you can stop lookin' at me. It ain't gonna help.

I stumbled on a website where, for the paltry sum of (your soul) you can have any demon, up and to Beelzebub himself, call you (or a loved one) and deliver a special customized message! Some of the messages that you can have delivered are as follows:

"You'll be killed in a car accident soon" $19.95 (us)
"O.J. did it" $19.95 (us)
"You're not as cool as you think" $19.95 (us)
"All the kids are selling THEIR souls, why not you?" $19.95 (us)
"Happy Barmitzvah" $19.95 (us)
"Your spouse has been cheating on you" $19.95 (us)
"Your house has termites" $19.95 (us)
"Happy anniversary" (great in tandem with "spouse cheating"-2 for $25.00) $19.95 (us)
"Your pet really isn't as smart as you give them credit for" $19.95 (us)
"Hey, spooky, you're not really a vampire" $19.95 (us)
"My butt itches" $19.95 (us)
"The Insane Clown Posse, while spooky, aren't really magic" $19.95 (us)
"I know what you're getting for Christmas and it's gonna suck" $19.95 (us)
"Secretly, your mom hated you" $19.95 (us)
"You're scheduled to die cold and alone" $19.95 (us)
"Pro wrestling isn't real" $19.95 (us)

And more! Also, from the FAQ section of the site, these nuggets of wisdom appear:

Q: Does it hurt to sell my soul?
A: not at first

Q: Can I write my own custom message?
A: no.

Q: How can you do this so cheap?
A: You think your soul is cheap?

Q: No, all the prices say $19.95 US
A: Ohhhh, yeahhh....All of our calls are $19.95 (US). prices slightly higher in Canada justsignonthedottedlineinbloodandshutup.

Q: What if I'm not home when they call?
A: too fucking bad. We had a deal.

Q: What if I don't have a phone?
A: even better.

I'm hoping to get JFK to call my neighbor here in Old Shanty Town. That'll be cool. Now, I just have to wait for him to get a phone and me to get a soul...

I love frijoles refritos! I surely do, especially if they are prepared by Jesus Martinez, Frijole chef extraordinaire. He can whip you up a serving of beans faster than you can say quick. Also, when you're done, you'll feel satisfied. That's right. Jesus can satisfy you with nothing more than some beans.

Of course, he has to have his magic pot. Without it, the beans won't be the same. I know, because one time I had him come over to my shanty (one location to serve you, in Old Shanty Town) and had him try and cook his beans in my (not so magical pot) and it just wasn't the same.

So, if you're in town, and you crave the meal that is "beans," Seek Jesus and you'll find your beany salvation.

So I was rifling through the trash near Old Shanty Town and found a package that, at one time, contained Oscar Meyer Weiners. Emblazoned on this package is a blurb about how, if I can formulate a wish that is worthy enough, I (of all people) could win the weeniemobile for a whole day. A whole day! I could use it to run errands, or even go to a drive-in movie, something I've ALWAYS wanted to do. Heck, if the weenie mobile would come pick me up, I could get a job! Oh, the possibilities.

According to the wrapper, my wish has to be two parts "creativity" and like, one part "goodwill" with a dash of "good taste." Well. Damn. This could be a problem. See, as much as I like helping people (believe me, I do) I can't stand the smells inside of those Goodwill stores. Plus, if I wanted to go around wearing other people's poo-stained clothes, I'd just maintain my current system of digging through the trash. Either way, I'm going to wish...

"wish" me luck! heh heh heh.

So, one time, my Dad shot me in the ass with rock salt. and it hurt. I learned a lesson. "Don't come home late if Daddy's been drinkin'."

And that was "always."

Mermaids aren't real  
(fortified with vitamins and minerals)
Mermen aren't real, either, so don't go to your local aquarium or Pet City and ask to see one. They'll most likely laugh at you and, if you get agitated and aggressive, the cops will come and beat your mermaid loving head in. Just a word of caution, goofy. They fucking don't exist...

In other news, I've been working on a very special project. I've been trying to come up with a special "punctuation thing" to place at the ends of sentences to denote the times when I am acting quizzical or actually "posing a query" to someone.

After a long period of time, including having a number of "focus groups" involved in the process, I've decided to call my item a "question mark." I shall unveil this new "question mark" to you now...



You are free to use this "question mark" in your own sentences as long as you send me a royalty fee. I accept Visa, Mastercard, Library Card and Food Stamps.

at least that's what some lady told me. She even gave me the results of what she told me was the "culmination of a long process of careful and clandestine observation" of my daily behavior. Hee hee, I love all them big words! Anyways, here's my teste scores:

Fucked-Updedness: 74/100
Irrationality: 46/100
Destructiveness: 88/100
Ill-timed sentiments: 38/100

You are a DICK--Damn Interesting Cool Kat. This makes you the most awesomest person to hang out with 'cause you have so much energy. You lick people's digits and make them feel very at home. If used properly, you won't have to be turned upside down, so as to get the most out of the bottle, the bottle will constantly be full.

To your "friends," you are someone to be avoided until they need money or a ride. To strangers, you are easily approachable, in fact, people feel very comfortable about the prospect of coming right up to you, hitting you with a crowbar and stealing your wallet.

You would benefit from body armor and/or an entourage. As long as they won't get any ideas about hitting you with crowbars and stealing your body armor.

Man, what a night. I haven't imbibed that much alcohol since "I don't know when" and, even if I did, I wouldn't have remembered due to the quantity of booze in my system at the time. Messes with your memory, you see. Anyway, I envy those people who can avoid vice and sin and strong drink and men posing as women. But, like the good boy I am, I must soldier on...

Oh, you're wondering what I'm talking about? I went to a park downtown in our little burg yesterday.

This was my first excursion to the park in over two years, following the "poop cannon" incident. I told them I was feeling ill!

So anyway, there's a lot of stuff in this park...I mentioned before that there are both "bums" and "squirrels," I ate a squirrel, yadda yadda...There's also shuffleboard, some grass, benches, a fountain, trees, bums, squirrels, bugs...The fountain? Yeah, it's formed in the shape of an old man people call "uncle Lester." Every so often, when the fountain is full of booze, a steady stream of yellow liquid will issue forth. "Uncle Lester" doesn't mind so much if you frolic in the spray, just as long as you toss him a nickel or two.

Oh, that's NOT a fountain? Aww, man...All this time. And he runs like clockwork...*sigh*

But, nonetheless, I went to the park. It "rained" on me for a little while, thanks to Uncle Les, but the experience was otherwise enjoyable. I got to chase some squirrels around for a while and then played the game wherein you drop a rock on a sleeping bum and see if he can catch you as you run around the park, whooping and hollering. Man, that tires me out like "nobody's business."

So, while I was there, I saw a couple kids steal someone's dog. I wanted to say something, but my conscience got the best of me. I got to thinkin' "maybe these poor kids REALLY need that dog. After all, dogs are expensive and if their parents can't AFFORD a dog, stealin's the next best thing." I then snapped out of it and threw rocks at the kids' heads until they ran home crying. "Job well done, buddy," I told myself. I then tried to pat myself on the back, but screwed up my elbow in the process. Man, that hurt.

So, after too long, it was time to head back to my shanty (located conveniently in "Old Shanty Town") and rest my weary bones. Luckily, a beer truck had run off the road near there and, on my way home, I stumbled upon the scene. The rig was upside down and the driver was trapped in the cab. He kept shouting "help! help!" and so I did. I helped myself to some of the beer and got the hell out of there. I must've drank 3 or 4 cases that night. Ah, yes. THESE are the good ol' days, my friends...These are the good ol' days.

Talk about false fucking advertising. "Freddy's Dead, the Final Nightmare" (which, if memory serves, was presented in 3-D in select theaters) was OBVIOUSLY not the final fucking nightmare. Give it up, already, before we have some sort of fantastic four redux featuring Jason, Freddy, Michael Myers and the fucking Mummy...Or whomever. Shit...

Aww, crap, where are they? They always come around and give me wedgies and steal my Schlitz® malt liquor collectible coins. I hate them! Anyways, here's a little story for you all, replete with a mystery code at the beginning...

------
FU2

Jojo was a man, he thought he was a loner. Of course, you would be too if you carried the kind of psychological baggage that this loser did. There's the incident with the gorillas at the neighborhood zoo...and then there was the small amount of time he spent in the street gang. He's still trying to figure out that whole "tagging" concept...

But, no matter how many people wish to have Jojo dead, you really should be able to derive some inspiration from how much he loves life. Ignorance is bliss, after all...

One such incident that should prove my point happened just weeks ago near Old Shanty Town. There was an injured puppy that had been found over by the railroad tracks. Jojo tried his damnedest to nurse the little fella back to health. Turns out it wasn't a puppy after all, it was a rat, it bit him, he contracted rabies and died a horrible, painful, frightful death. But he was a trooper right up to the end.

Ahh, well. Only the good die young...Where was I?

Oh, yeah, I'm enrolling in Clown College! There's no residency restrictions and I can be in and out with a degree in just under 6 months. I figured it was Clown College, Bartending College or Beauty Academy, but in the end, making people laugh while scaring children HAD to win out. After all, they don't allow kids inside taverns and those little fuckers won't keep their head still when you're trying to cut their hair. At least I didn't when I was a kid. I don't think that society has changed all than much, do you?

So anyway, yeah. I'm gonna be "Butt Trumpet" the clown. I figure I should hit big in France.

The college offers a 12-step program where you get your own room, your own mentor and even get to choose your own personal "higher power." Oh, wait, that's that OTHER place...I'm not allowed back there, all because of my cool, colorful bottle collection.

Sometimes it's nice to have different bottles that you can collect and then display with pretty wildflowers in them. It really can bring a certain rustic charm to any decor and brighten up the fragrance of a room.

HOLY CRAP! I DID NOT JUST TYPE THAT!...

So where was I?..Oh, yes, clown college. I'll be starting my training soon, starting with remedial trips and falls, basic makeup technique and anger management. It's a tough courseload, but I can handle it. If I can handle living in a shanty (in old Shanty Town) and eating mouse squeezin's, this should be cake.

I'll be available for birthdays, weddings, barmitzvahs, batmitzvahs, funerals and televised court proceedings very soon...Maybe I'll even have a website!

Next stop: Scary clown!