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Did Ya? by Matt Tracy I wonder if anyone ever thought of any of the stuff I propose? [597 words]
Turning Fifty by Danny I. Spitler The author takes a reflective look at reaching the half century mark. [999 words]
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The Demented Monologue Of A Downright Imbecile
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The Demented Monologue Of A Downright Imbecile
Another display of foolishness and inanity, from the one who can do them best, Crazy Clown. Requires an altered state of mind to fully enjoy.
[1,246 words]
Crazy Clown
Proud founder and president of Crazy Clown Productions (c)
[October 2000]
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The Demented Monologue Of A Downright Imbecile
Crazy Clown

     Finally, I've figured out why nobody bought my crap-matic compactor/disposer unit. At first, I thought that it was because the moon was out, and my rabid quacking entranced so many people that they were too busty busy to buy anything. Then I realized that I may have sold a million units, but my other personality sold them. I do all the sales. Actually, I do them, I just tell my self that I sell them. This otherwise normal conversation inevitably ends up comparing my works of art to things that occur in nature, like carpet stains and motorcycle accidents, so we I change the subject. My, isn't schitsophrenzia
fun? We sure enjoy it!
     Finally, I return to the topic at foot. Nobody bought my wonderfully huggable (just watch out for the switches... now that is something I don't recommend humping hugging!) crap compactor units because I didn't have good enough marketing! I suppose the sanity of my argument was just too much for those poor souls at McDonalds to absorb all at once; I really must learn to speak slowly and into the microphone, or else they get real uppity at my jumping through the drive-through window and de-bowling them with a bloody, urine-stained spork! Ahahahaha!... Breath, now... All better... Uncle Sperminator
always told me that poppin' Riddlin pills plays hell with my sperm count. All the better, so I can reproduce! Bwahahahaha! Oops, there I go again. I'd better catch up with myself or I have to call the vet.
     Finally, I get to the point of the spork essay, where I say something profoundly profound about the ridiculous amount of advertisements in the world today. They are everywhere, bombarding us with needless information and countless mind-numbing jingles designed specifically to drive us insane... a.k.a. yours truly. I don't call myself
Crazy Clown for everything! Oh, yes, the point... There is not enough advertisement in the world! Why, just a few years ago, in the early nineties, Pizza Hut considered a plan to beam an enormous, bright image of their logo onto the moon with a gigantic laser, and you know the crazy part? They scrapped the puppy project because it was too expensive! Can you believe it? I can't sporkin' believe it! Imagine the money they would have made
in the lawsuits from astrologrophers! After denying that their logo is on the moon, the would quickly blow the heads off of the jury with the giant laser, and say that the decapitated corpses couldn't see it either, and when there is no response, they would win the lottery! Hooray!
     Finally, we have reached the point of the spork where I switch to another completely ridiculous, ludicrously fast speeded topic of the day! Now lets all put on our thinking shoes, and consider the following (echo, echo, echo...): Is plagiarism really wrong? I meat, is there really an original thought? I didn't think so, and I'm not the first person to think that, neither! Of course, you could think a random combination of what second you will die, what you had for lunch, the smell of rotten egg salad, and the touch of fake strap-on gonads on naked buttocks, and create a truly unique thought, but now that I've just suggested it, it goes under the category of "unoriginal," and I own it and have all of the rights therefore. By this logic, I've thought of you before you did, at this very moment, so I own you. Now bow before me, slave!
     Finally, of course, since President Gettysburg gave the Washington address at Lincolntown, Oregon, slavery was at once and for all eternity declared legal in Mexico, (where you can buy fake strap-on gonads for $5!) so we are all slaves of one harsh, crazy, despotic dictator- our own minds. Have you ever tried to reason with yourself? Huh? Have you ever got in an argument with your conscience and both lost? Have you ever gotten lost in thought, find Nirvana, then are rudely awakened to find that you had just grabbed the construction worker's ass on the elevator in your elevated state of consciousness and he is now pummeling your eggshell skull against the sidewalk with a rubber mallet? I sure have, and boy, was it a laugh riot! For everybody in the parole office who had to listen to my explanation for my brutal murder of President Reagan... damn teddy bear, kept telling me what to do... Must... Kill... Scooby Doo!
     Finally, hasn't anybody else noticed how the mystery van is their real home, since they are homeless, druggie hippies, with a dog that they think talks, a guy who can eat incredible amounts of food under the influence of the munchies caused by the hallucinogenic hash-brownies that are scooby-snacks? I didn't think so. Why else would the smurfs be blue, and the snorks have a dick sticking out of their heads, and they all use
the word of their names to describe practically damn everything! Bah! I'm going hairy! I look in the sink for lost hairs, and I find that my normally bald scalp (shaved for ease of electro-shock therapy) has a soft, green fuzz on the parts where there is direct sunlight! Bwahahahaha! Take that, Rogaine users! Bwahahahaha, I say, bwahahahaha! Be sure to use that insane-asylum patented, high-pitched hysterical squeal when you recite this essay
aloud to your shocked and confused grandparents in that hellhole of a hellhole you call their nursing home!
     Finally, I am finally able to say finally about being able to say finally about being able to say finally about being able to day finally about being able to say finally about being able to say finally about being able to say finally about being able to say finally about being able to say finally about saying no to condoms! That's right, what is more important an issue to you, the average committed felon and housewife; the continued satisfaction and sensitivity during sexual intercourse which I did not had with that
woman, or the uncontrollable explosion of the homeless, poor, and unfed and ungoing to be fed population? The answer is clear. I cheated, and made one choice easier then the other. Down with condoms! Up for contraceptives, like murder, or lethal injection, or hatchets, or self-circumcision, or circumferences, or Oreos! Yes, Oreos, the seed of all evil.
     Finally, I come to an end. Although this has been torture to the soul to ramble incessantly about nonsensical and bizarre topics in ludicrous writing styling where grammar problems abound, grammar problems abound, and grammar problems
abounded, I am afraid that our time has come up. I must now go back into the world of the underworlder playing the part of an overworlder who is really a lowest-worlder in love with a highest-worlder. Not to hard, nothing simple for me! Let the hills ring out the hymns of torturous screams and the belabored typing of a downright imbecile of the third kind.

(S.P.- I hope you have stayed with me so far. Although you gain nothing except a possible migraine for reading this essay in its entirety, I have definitely released some mounting pressure on my life in this thankfully nonviolent form of expression. My parole officer said that this would be an excellent way of relieving the weight of the thirteen casualties at the spork incident from my shoulders. Aren't you excited to imagine that I maybe out in a few weeks?)

     Your humble servant who will one day overthrow you,
          Crazy Clown


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October 2000

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