small brush shouldn't fuck with big timber

Death's Door, the view from the Spanish announcers table: from the archives....sweatin the small stuff

Thursday, September 14

from the archives....sweatin the small stuff

Disclaimer; this post involves a make-believe scenario that was written for the amusement of the readers of this site.

The author wants to make it known that no stupid clowns or gay assed mimes were harmed during the writing of this post.

Death’s Door in no way endorses or advocates the killing, beating, slapping the taste out of, or the alleged snatching up of a muthafuckin clown or mime like they owe you money.

I stood just off the main entryway watching all the people stream into the big top. What the fuck am I doing here I thought as I watched some Rodan assed bitch wearing pink spandex pants herd her two equally Godzillasque kids thru the entrance to their seats. Goddamn, and to think someone’s fuckin that?

I shook out another smoke as I winced at the thought of someone banging Gigantor’s big pink ass, but as I lit my cigarette I heard the crowd inside going crazy so against my better judgment I peeked inside. I looked to see what all the commotion was but it took a couple of seconds to adjust my eyes to the dim light. It looked like every seat was filled, hmmm; every trailer park in town must be empty.

Then the stench hit me, what the fuck is that fucking smell I said to no one in particular. It was a mixture of bad perfume, burnt popcorn and who the fuck knows what else. Across the main floor of the big top, rolling toward the center of the ring was this tiny little car, backfiring and blowing pink smoke out its ass end. It ground to a stop and as it did all four doors flung open wide and muthafucker’s started falling out to the ground.

How in the fuck do they do that shit I wondered, as ten clowns climbed out and assembled in front of the tiny car. Just between you and me, clowns are some scary assed shit, with their white faces and fucked up hair and giant feet, and don’t even get me started on their bullshit fashion sense.

The only thing worse then clowns I figured had to be a muthafuckin mime. Suddenly I found myself back in the park yesterday, sitting on a bench eating my lunch minding my own fuckin business when this mime started fuckin with me. You know how they do, first it’s the tugging the invisible rope thing, then it’s oh look, I’m inside this box and I can’t get out.

So after a few minutes the fuckin mime stops and stands in front of me holding his hand out. What the fuck do you want? He starts rubbing his belly and pantomiming eating. Oh, you want me to give you money, is that it? The stupid mime starts nodding and jumping up and down and shit. So I shot em, right between his giant red lips, yup, put a cap in his ass sure as shit.

Now go mime your way out’a that you silent Bob muthafucker. And now here I am staring down a bunch of fuckin clowns. Clowns ain’t much better then mimes are they? I reached down to my waist only to remember that my guns were in the trunk. Dammit, I hate when I forget shit, and with that thought I turned to head to my car in the parking lot. I wonder how many stupid clowns I can kill before the cops show up.

"and the monkey flipped the switch"


Blogger Ole Blue The Heretic said...

That is the greatest story ever told!

10:45 AM  

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