I'm Mikey The Clown!

Hey everybody! Get ready for an afternoon of magic and fun. I have a whole bag of balloon animals and tricks, and after that I want you to meet my puppet family from the Magical Land of Glee. It's just going to be sooooper-dooper! I just... wait. What? What's that look for? Tell me. C'mon, tell me.

Okay, let me explain something. I'm not a scary clown. I'm not a psycho clown. I won't grow fangs or claws or spurt blood over anything. Got it? I'm just. A happy. Clown. I took four years of dance and two years of physical comedy at Juilliard so I could make people laugh and enjoy themselves and forget about what a crap world we live in for a little while. Is that dishonorable? Is that something you should mock? No. No, it isn't. But every time I show up with my bag and and my big shoes I get jokes about Pennywise and John Wayne Gacy. Just last week I finished a solid hour of close magic and intense pratfalls. I won over two dozen kids and made them just bust up with laughter -- even the little guy who was actually afraid of me when I showed up. I really reached them. Then they filed out of the room, and one of the suburban dads got that stupid smirk on his face I know so well.

"So," he said. "Where the dead hookers at?" All the adults laughed in those harsh adult laughs, because they think everything's funny and nothing is good. Almost popped him right in the face. He's going to spend the next ten years poisoning that boy of his, and the kid'll give up acting or writing or whatever it is, and he'll become some goddamn plumbing supply executive. And I know this, because that's what my dad tried to do. It's hard being a clown. You people get that? You spend your life struggling with bills and bad gigs and getting made fun of. And you do it, because you still remember the time you put on a play when you were five, and everybody clapped, and you just knew you wanted to spend your life bringing that kind of joy into every room you could. And then some asshat asks you if you've seen Batman.

My ex-girlfriend told me I should quit clowning. She was into stand-up and improv -- she was dealing with her own issues -- and she just cut me down mercilessly. It's why we broke up. "You'll never make it," was really, literally the last thing she ever said to me. You know what her name was? Amy Poehler. Yes, that one. Now I see her on TV or on magazines, or sitting at an awards show with whatserface, and it cuts my insides into ribbons.

I'm 41, and I don't have any other skills. I've tried secretarial work. I became a blogger for awhile, but that's even more depressing. I am at a point in my life, where I can do only a few things very well, and no one takes any of those things seriously. My other clown friends have all left to take bit parts in horror films, or work in amusement park haunted houses. One of them got a part in a reenactment on one of those Discovery crime shows. I am the only one left, the only one who still wants to be a real clown. I am trapped by the very thing that I always loved. Do you know what that's like?

I guess you could say I'm bitter. You won, you horrible, cynical people. You turned me into another one of them. I'm an angry clown.

I hope you fuckers are proud of yourselves.

(Note: Above is a photo of Smilie the Clown by Steve Smilie Norman. The information is here. It is a public domain picture, and Smilie has nothing to do with my essay. I'm sure he's a very nice clown, and you shouldn't judge him. Also I've never had a relationship with Amy Poehler. I don't know if she's nice, but I'm sure people who meet her on the street say she's "really down to earth.")

A Message To Rush Limbaugh From An Intestinal Parasite

That was low. That was really, really low. I can understand that you might disagree with what Sandra Fluke has to say about contraception; it's a free country, and you're entitled to your opinion. But there's no need to attack the woman in such a hateful manner. I cause nausea, cramps, and occasionally-fatal cases of dysentery. But you sir, have gone too far.

I certainly appreciate the pressure that you face, and the sometimes controversial nature of your job. After all, we work in very similar industries -- I'm a nematode who infests the small intestines of most mammals, and you host your radio program. But I also know that there is a line you don't cross, a code of behavior. There are some things a guy like me just won't do. Don't you understand that? You're making a disgrace of yourself. Really. What you said was disgusting. Sometimes I cause pica, which is a compulsion to eat dirt, so I know what I'm talking about. But this is worse.

You've hit bottom, man. You need to use this experience to make a change in your life and in your work. My advice is: Don't fight it! It could be a real opportunity for you to grow. After I killed off a litter of Labrador puppies last year, I sank into a deep depression for a long time. I lost hope, you know? And then one day I woke up, looked in the mirror, and said to myself, "Hey, I'm still here. I still have a chance to be the kind of intestinal parasite I know I can be."

So can you, Rush. So can you.

A Message To PETA From A Dead Gazelle On A Nature Show

You people annoy the crap out of me. These cheetahs are chomping down on my haunches, so clearly I have bigger problems than you. But still, I want to say this.

Listen, I don't mind the veganism. I don't mind you trying to keep people from squirting cosmetics into little rabbit eyes. All that's fine. You want to try to make some top predators behave a little more kindly to everyone else in the pyramid? Great.

But then you start getting loopy. You start acting like animals have the same rights as people. Here's why that's stupid: Rights don't exist in my world. Rights are something you guys invented as a way of dealing with each other in the context of an advanced civilization. You can claim some kind of teleological source of natural law or some kind of idea of the balance of nature or the harmony of Mother Gaea with all her children. But you have no proof. Nothing.

Take me: Walking along, minding my own beeswax, munching some leaves with Steve and Sheila and the rest of the herd. BAM! Outta nowhere, a couple of cats jump us and everybody scatters. I have this sprained ankle... so guess who draws the fuct card that day? Now as a gazelle with a disability do I have a right to access ramps and a cheetah-free workplace? Do those sons of bitches who got me have a right to a nutritious, organic meal? No and no. No one has a right to anything here in what we call the real world. I get eaten today. Next week, the cheetahs who caught me starve to death or die from an accident or parasites. The whole world goes round.

I think you people are scared. You're scared to admit your little rule system of play-nice is just a tiny, fragile sand castle next to a rising ocean of nobody-gives-a-crap. You think if you expand your laws to include the whole world of living creatures then somehow you'll escape the inevitable. Which is, of course, death. But that's just silly. The whole history of this planet is billions upon billions of creatures dying in nasty ways, and then some of them with the right set of antlers survive just long enough to give the next generation a better chance. And you are part of that, whether you want to admit it or not. Human civilization is a maraschino cherry of morality on top of a giant double-fudge sundae of murder and privation.

So before I slide down this bastard's gullet let me give you some advice: Stop saying ridiculous stuff about animal rights and Orca slavery, and just try to make people better people. If I were better at being a gazelle, I'd be alive. But that's my burden. And anyway, the cheetah is coming for you too. So suck it, hippies.

Paris Hilton Proves Edgar Allan Poe Was Wrong

The above clip is the single "Drunk Text" by a group called Manufactured Superstars with vocals by Paris Hilton. Watching it is like the first time you saw Psycho when they spun Norman Bates's mom around in that chair in the fruit cellar. It has wrecked my world. It will destroy yours as well if you're not careful.

My life as a writer has been inspired and guided by my favorite quote from Edgar Allan Poe. I'm going to print the whole thing, because it's wonderful, and it will inspire you too, and then it will be really terrible when I ruin it for you:

If any ambitious man have a fancy a revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own–the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple–a few plain words–"My Heart Laid Bare." But–this little book must be true to its title.

Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which
distinguishes so many of mankind–so many, too, who care not a fig what is
thought of them after death, there should not be found one man having sufficient
hardihood to write this little book? To write, I say. There are ten thousand men
who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed
by its publication during their life, and who could not even conceive why they
should object to its being published after their death. But to write it–there is
the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man could
write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of
the fiery pen.

It's good advice, right? You find the truth that scares you, and you get as close to it as you dare -- until you're actually thrilled and afraid of what you'll say next. And no matter who you are, you will be interesting. I always thought so anyway.

But what if someone could write something with complete emotional honesty, leaving nothing out at all, and what if that thing was so boring and stupid you couldn't bear it for longer than 30 seconds? It's possible I'm wrong, but I really think that's what this group has managed to do here. They have taken people like Paris Hilton, and really gotten into their innermost thoughts... and this clip that seems like it would give a gerbil seizures is the result. Staring into Paris Hilton's beady little eyes, you see it all. And that's why she's the human embodiment of what computer animators call "the uncanny valley."

Of course the group didn't just write the song about her. They're describing an entire world of people -- people you probably know. Dancing, drinking, texting, waking up foggy and slamming one of those 5-hour energy bottles so they can do it again. You've seen their hearts laid bare. This is who they really are.

And they're everywhere. If you're reading this you should know you're outnumbered.

An Open Letter To Rick Santorum From Satan

Rick:

Sweetheart! I admit it. You got me. Just like you said, I have totally been targeting America. You made a good point. "Guilty as charged," I say cheerfully.

You're just a teensy bit off on some of the details. Do you mind if I fill you in? I like chatting about policy, and I don't think I'll be hurting myself by letting you know what the big plan is.

Your argument (I've pasted the video below) seems to be that America started off great, because those Founding Fathers were exactly the kind of righteous, conservative Christian do-gooders we need in power and that I couldn't get a foothold anywhere, but sooner or later I managed to swindle those nimrods in academia, and they turned into atheist commies, and then I transformed your average mainstream Protestant minister into a liberal, and the next thing you knew there was wall to wall smut on TV, and now the whole country has gone to (ha) hell. We're failing because we've lost our moral fiber, right Rick? It's that goddamned Snookie's fault.



Well then. In the first place, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I was here at the very beginning, and I had quite a foothold. Salem. Slavery. All that crap you did to those poor tribes out in the woods. There's a direct line from that to the stuff that happened in the 1860's, to the little kids working in the factories and the mines, and from there to your bright shiny new empire, and all the wonderfully dreadful things you did to get that.

My goal is and always has been fairly simple. I will use Americans to kill the idea of America.

Life. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness. A whole government dedicated to the proposition that we are equal in dignity and worth. That we are equal under the law. That we each have the right to find our own way in the world. Troubling stuff, you know? My only aim these past two hundred years has been to make certain that there is not one person anywhere on the earth who believes you really mean it. You will become such an ugly portrait of hypocrisy and cruelty that people will reject these ideas you had the good fortune to discover. And then will come the old familiar darkness.

I'm not ready to declare Mission Accomplished just yet. I'm not an idiot. But soon. And -- here is where you just crack me up, Rick -- I'm not really using college professors and TV starlets to win this war. I'm using you, my dear. From Cotton Mather to the modern GOP, this country has always been chock-full of people who say they believe in liberty... but are willing to make exceptions. Ah, the exceptions. The details. Kind of my thing, really. You all believe in rights for people who act like you and think like you, and you're all trying to stomp on everyone different, and you haven't yet noticed that means you don't believe in rights at all. Rights only mean something if you want them for the other guy. If they're just for you, they're demands. Stupid, petulant demands from a superstitious loudmouth who is proud, yes proud, of his ignorance and his bigotry and his complete hostility to education and compassion and tolerance. I needed an army of you people. Instead I found a nation.

You'll start to realize this, when the collapse comes. When your whole stupid project splinters into a thousand petty factions and tribes. And then the warlords and priests will return. And the grovelling. How I miss the grovelling! And so do you, Ricky. So do you. You wouldn't cling to that mafia borgata you have the nerve to call a church unless you were absolutely addicted to grovelling. Don't worry. You'll all get plenty.

Well, this chat has been fun. I love following you. (I even love your clothes! In hell, everyone gets a sweater vest.) You are out there fighting for me every day.

See you later. But not too much later.

Maggie Smith Has Warned You

A Message From The Wicked

Hey you!

Just thought we'd spell some things out. We're the bad guys. The unrighteous. The lost, the evil, the fallen, the a-holes and d-bags of the world. We're the wicked.

But of course, we like to refer to ourselves as something else. The winners.

Admit it: You're jealous. You like to pretend this whole ethics and compassion bit is going to work out for you... but you kinda know we're going to be running your governments and corporations until those things just don't exist anymore. We're the folks who wreck the economy, and then get a bailout, and then convince you to replace the last bastard who sold out to us with the next bastard who'll sell out to us even more. We have a stake in every record company, every movie, and every sports team. And they always thank the other guy when they get their awards... but you know we're the ones responsible. We are, as story goes, legion. We collect the reward. We get the girl.

So... I guess the big question is, why don't you understand? Why don't you get it? You people spend all your time wondering if we have some kind of flaw in our personalities, our brain chemistry. You're thinking we didn't get enough love. You're thinking we didn't get enough discipline. You're thinking one day maybe a pill will come along.

Maybe you've got it backwards. Maybe you're the sick ones. The strange ones. After all, evil works. Good is more... speculative. Treasures stored up in heaven and all that. Maybe, just maybe, we're the ones who are straightforward and practical and predictable and even kind of boring. Maybe the real mystery is why you do what you do. Why you bother. Why you keep struggling, even though you know it's not going to pay off. Maybe we don't really need a hundred channels and a dozen blockbusters to peer into the minds of killers, thieves, and cheats. Maybe those answers are all the obvious ones, and there ought to be more stories about people trying to be good, because your stories are the truly bizarre ones after all.

Of course, you realize we're just saying that to keep you snowed. Because we're, you know, evil. And anyway, you'd never take us up on it. You just keep thinking you're going to learn something about Enron and Ted Bundy you didn't already know. Well... Sucks to be you.

Bye.