Clowns can suck my ass. Those creepy white faces, reminiscent of dead fish bellies, with the paint extravaganza tied to balloons for happy-happy fun time that’s more like scary-terror cry time, haunt my dreams and fog my delusions into perfect little chaos squares and triangles and circles. Geometry can eat a big bag of fried tulip dicks, those line-thin pistils that wish they had pistols so they could shoot the fucking clown in his creepy brown eye. Bang, bang, you’re Fred the Cunnilingus Clown. Except no one wants that anywhere near their linguals—bi, tri, or otherwise.
Flash in the pan, I always say. Like scattered leaves on a Friday, late for the gym and racing through the parking lot to the circus from eloquence and pride to emotional fatigue and scary eyebrows. High those finicky whiskers soar, taking out the trash on every day except trash day. I’ll bet it chaps the garbage collectors’ asses when people do that shit. Should’ve gone down the plank at the end of the driveway, straight into the maw of that harlequin from hell, its tongue lolling, pierced with a tanzanite stud muffin, eyes hooded like Emperor Palpatine after an exhausting game of Yahtzee. He never could win that one because the Force wasn’t exactly on his side when the dice rolled and trolled across the velvet plain. Poor Palpatine.
He was like a ghost clown, wasn’t he? Shrouded in white, balmy skin, wrinkles on his pinkies while he drank tea with the Queen of New Caledonia among the flowers and wandering cats, their buttholes exposed beneath puffs of fur and giblets. Those cats are the only ones who don’t fear a goddamned clown. Cats look at him, chew their cud, and say, “Nonchalant, is it not, Theodore?”
And Theodore replies, “Whenever I encounter the swooping eyebrows, intent on selling cream for the face that comes from a looooooooong tube made of flesh and boners, I attack with my mighty claws, ripping that foreskin and fur off at the root, bedraggling the man behind the myth of trailers and three rings and elephant dung. That shit smells tidy as a seashell wriggling through a urethra, man!”
Theodore is a very wise cat. He also knows his clown DNA. GACCTGGATCC for the win. Except really, who knows what all that DNA talk is about anyway? Not Theodore. He speaks in their language, but he knows not what he says. Some consider him a genius with the genus, but the species takes a little more effort. Digging up bones is a hard job, but Theodore doesn’t mind. As long as the bones belong to that white-faced clown motherfucker sitting at the end of the table, fork and knife in hands, waiting to dig into the heartiest meal of soul he ever did climb.
Theodore eats clown souls for midnight snacks on occasion, and when they give him indigestion, he belches and farts in tandem, and the world breathes a great sigh of relief. For Theodore’s castaways can heal even the scariest of nightmares.
Long live Theodore, the Clown Atomizer!