Tag Archives: clowns

July 11, 2015 · 1:04 pm

Why You Should Shoot Yourself in the Foot Rather Than Vote for Donald Trump

I confess. I am subject to the annoying liberal belief that if I check my facts and make properly reasonable arguments, I can save the world from all the political idiots and partisan clowns that are filling the American scene with horse poop. Of course, I just got back home to Texas from a week-long visit to Iowa, and in both places there are people that I respect and love that feel that everything conservatives and even Tea Party Republicans say on Fox News makes sense. How deluded can you be? It almost makes a loony liberal communist anti-Christ like me start using the other word for poop.

The problem, I believe, lies in the -ists and the -isms. For example, racists and racism or anti-Zionists and anti-Zionism (words that I believe Hitler chose to describe how he felt about ants who were from Zion… or something) are -ists and -isms. The kind of -ists and -isms that makes people from Iowa argue that the Confederate flag represents culture not hatred, even though that particular flag killed a large number of Iowans in the “Hornet’s Nest” at the Battle of Shiloh in 1862 in Missouri. Iowa was on the Union side. That war, by the way, was a war of rebellion by the South who wanted to be a separate nation so they could keep buying and selling people like they were pet hamsters and working them like they were mules. (See what I mean… loony liberals let facts get in the way of all the really cool ideas?)

My children and I had a discussion of -ists and -isms at the Burger King today, because the Princess didn’t want to sit next to her brother, because… well, brothers are stinky and bother you and she would just end up being unfairly in trouble for pouring her medium soft drink over his head. We talked about how people are prone to let prejudices control their behavior instead of using civil, loving, Christian values. The Princess was being a seat-ist and subject to seat-ism. And then we noted that if she hopped from seat to seat, she would be a repeat-ist seat-ist. And if she took a real disliking to the seat, she might turn into a seat-ist beat-ist. And if she obsessively tried to clean the seat of big-brother cooties, she was being a neat-ist seat-ist. And we got a good laugh at the expense of seat-ists everywhere.

animal.kukuchew.com

And taking Donald Trump seriously as a presidential candidate this last week is the same stupid thing. The man opened his mouth during his announcement speech and proceeded to spew horse poop about Mexicans being rapists and drug-dealers and other criminals coming across our borders to take our stuff and rape our women and do all kinds of evil horse poop… because he was reading from a carefully researched speech foot-noted with crime statistics… or possibly because The Donald would never just speak boat-loads of horse poop hatefully off the top of his head. (Notice I resisted the temptation to use the other word for poop three whole times! I am a slave to political correctness and need to be called out for it.)

I learned a few things about immigration over the last decade of being an ESL teacher (English for non-English speakers). If you come from a properly white-skinned country like, say, Finland, you have a relatively easy time immigrating to the U.S. If you come from a brown or black country, you face a barb-wire-shrouded mine field in the form of a legal immigration process, and once you make it legally to this country, any little slip-up or typo… even those you don’t make yourself… can get you re-classified as illegal and deported. Parents are deported away from their children. Children get deported even though they were born in this country and speak only English. My own Filipino wife is still not a citizen after twenty years of marriage. And most of those “illegal immigrants” that so disturb The Donald (and Ted Cruz, and Rick Santorum, and Rick Perry. and the rest of the Republican Clown Alley) do important jobs that employers have a hard time filling otherwise. If they are actually illegal, they pay into the system in the form of income tax and are unable to claim any benefits because they risk discovery and deportation. Thinking these hard-working, under-loved people are all criminals is horse poop.

But enough with the horse-poop discussion. I hate when my posts end up full of poop. Donald Trump is the worst kind of -ist and full of the most terrible kinds of -isms. If you shoot yourself in the foot, it will heal, at most, in a couple of months. If you vote for Donald Trump, you may end up having to live in a horse-poop factory for four years. Do you really like man-made horse poop? It is a lot more toxic than the organic stuff. (Dang! Even loony-liberal political correctness doesn’t keep the danged poop from piling up!)

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, politics

Tagged as clowns, Donald Trump, humor, immigration, orangutan people, political humor, politics, sarcasm, satire

July 3, 2015 · 1:44 pm

The Politics of Clowns

It is almost not fair to make fun of presidential candidates. They are making it so easy. If you can’t take anything but cheap shots at certain folks, then what value is in your words? Still, it is a temptation hard to resist.

So, I have spared no expense in hiring a couple of KlownTown’s finest to watch my every word, and keep me honest.

It is almost impossible to find a picture of Donald Trump on a good hair day.

1. Candidate Hair– The field of candidates on both sides of the divide is filled with marvelous examples of clown hair. I am left wondering how they achieve such effects. Assuming Rand Paul is not wearing a bad toupee, how does he get his hair to look like a squirrel who fell into a vat of yellow wood-stain shellac and then crawled out and died on his head? I think his father proved before him that too much Libertarian political purity has a profoundly pickling effect upon your head, and leads to making what hair you have growing out funny. Donald Trump obviously takes his hair off every morning and steam presses it on wrought-iron ironing boards in a thoroughly Republican flat-tax flattening sort of arm motion. It’s too bad he is in the habit of taking his hair off at the neck, because the ritual flattening is having a bad effect on the “maybe-I-shouldn’t-say-that-out-loud” centers in his brain. The Democrats are not immune to the clown-hair scourge either Bernie Sanders obviously uses my grandfather’s bald-guy low-maintenance approach to hair-styling. Step out of the shower, rub a towel across the top of your head, and you are ready to roll with that straight-talking brand of no-nonsense socialism that you can get by with because everyone is looking at how the towel Bozo-ed up your hair and distracts them from listening to your actual words. (Okay, the Klown Kops caught me. Bozo is not a legal verb.)

I bet you didn’t know that Ted Cruz went to Ringling Bros. Clown College for two years.

2. Candidate Words– Yes, the greater part of the clown-offences committed by candidates have to do with words. Some, like Senator Ted Cruz of Texas have a marvelous glibness that defies understanding. Cruz can go on talk shows and talk with two different tongues at the same moment. He is smart and Ivy-League-educated, but when he denies climate change he says he is not a scientist (which absolves him of using scientific reasoning in his arguments) but he says the science is not yet settled (which he routinely backs up with facts and statistics that are not true). Here is a noble statesman who is of Cuban descent and speaks no Spanish. He was born in Canada but renounced his Canadian citizenship so it wouldn’t interfere with his presidential aspirations. So, where the heck is he from, and why did we elect him in Texas? Even Republican Senator John McCain calls him a “wacko bird” for his combative Me-against-the-world political maneuverings. Who would possibly make a better president? At least, he is certainly capable of keeping the cartoonists and satirists happy. (The KlownTown Kops are reminding me that I have already passed 500 words and too much politics on the internet is a very bad thing… so maybe I must leave the rest of this topic for another day.)

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Filed under clowns, humor, Paffooney

Tagged as clowns, humor, paffooney, politicians, politics

April 3, 2015 · 12:22 pm

Family Stories

If you’ve read any of my posts so far in my thousand-mile journey as a blogger, you have probably already noticed that when I write, I am definitely a story-teller. I can’t go a day without telling somebody a story. I usually tell lies when I write because I tell fiction stories. The names of the characters are never the real names. Sometimes the events are not the real events. That’s what fiction writers do. We tell lies. It can’t be helped. But in the midst of those lies, the truth usually comes out. The characters and events are shadows of what is real. But the feelings, the understandings, the moments of revelation… those are essential truth… the truth that fuels the very mind of God.

One important revelation happened to me yesterday, a black day that added to a long list of very black days that buffet me with heartache and worry as I struggle to raise children in a system designed to defeat me. We were in a local restaurant after a long day of school withdrawals and doctor’s visits, Henry, the Princess, and I. I won’t call the restaurant by name because that would give Taco Bueno free advertising that.they didn’t pay for… um, okay… that was a mistake. But I’ll probably remember to edit that out later… probably. Anyway, we were sitting at a booth in Taco Good-o waiting for our bean burritos, chips, and dip, and the Princess, whom you sorta see in the paffooney today, began telling me about Atlantis Alpha. It seems Alpha team is having trouble keeping all their members alive. The leader has a brother and a sister. She believes they have both been killed, but it turns out that the brother is actually alive… Well, you get the idea. The Princess is writing a script for an animated cartoon she means to produce in the future with her friends in Anime Club at school. It all sounds very tense and exciting. And it means that just like me, she is a story-teller, bent on relating something important through science fiction and fantasy.

I am just guessing here, but I believe the story-teller gene came from my Grandpa. He was my mother’s father and he was a farmer who could tell a funny story with the best of them. He used to tell us stories all the time about the infamous Dolly O’Malley and her husband, Shorty the dwarf. It was my understanding that these were real people. There were houses in the southeast corner of our little Iowa farm-town, the infamous Ghost House was one of them, that were collectively known as Dolly-ville because she had purchased all four at some point, probably with the idea of profiting off real estate, and had let them all collectively rot into ruin. But, as with most of my Grandpa’s stories, their sheer veracity was always in question. Not only did I get my penchant for changing names (and I have used no real names in this story… forget about the Taco Bueno thing), but I got my knack for embellishing to make it funnier from him too. The story I remember laughing about the hardest was the time that Dolly and Shorty had gotten into an argument about politics. Apparently Shorty was using a string of bad words against some stupid thing that President Truman had done, when Dolly, not known for using color-free language herself, got tired of his invective and physically threw him off the porch. Of course, the second or third time I heard that story, Shorty landed in the middle of the hog pen in the front yard, and being a small man, nearly drowned in pig poo. What can I say? I was maybe seven. Pig poo was funny. (I know I used a real name in this paragraph, but honestly, you don’t know it wasn’t really President Eisenhower.)

So let me tack on a hopelessly disconnected conclusion to give you the moral of the story. Story-telling, like the appreciation of pig-poo humor, runs in the genes. And I shouldn’t worry so much about those times when things go wrong for my children. They are story-tellers too, and can probably lie their way out of any dungeon of doom.

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Filed under autobiography, humor, Paffooney

Tagged as autobiography, clowns, family, grandpa, humor, Paffoonies, story-telling

March 11, 2015 · 4:51 pm

Goofy Squared

There are a number of really, really goofy facts about me that I will reveal in today’s post… No one is trying to blackmail me over these things, believe it or not. I have no money. And I have no reputation to protect. I am nobody. Just a silly, goofy, loony old nobody. But I have a few chuckles now and then at my own expense.

Revelation #1; The clown nose in the picture was a souvenir from Cirque du Soleil. We went to see them in a parking lot in Frisco, Texas. They had an actual circus tent. When I was five, I told my parents I wanted to be a clown when I grew up. Nobody believes me when I say it, but I achieved that goal. They say, “But you were a school teacher!”

And I say, “How is that different?”

Honestly, I have worn a clown nose and played harmonica in front of a classroom full of twelve-year-olds. I can make teenagers laugh so hard the principal has to check to make sure they are not gleefully setting me on fire or duct-taping me to the wall. (Duck-taping sounds funnier, but you have to be accurate when describing real events from modern schools.)

Revelation #2; I am a closet nudist.

I used to be associated with the AANR, a nudist/ naturist organization in the latter part of the 1980’s, I met the nudist publishers through stamp collecting and they tried to recruit me. I bought books and videos from them. I have actually been naked for an entire day… once. I knew nudists in Austin where a former girlfriend stayed over several weekends with her sister who lived in the clothing-optional apartment complex on Manor Road. I am not brave enough to walk around physically naked in front of people on a regular basis though. So, I am a closet nudist. Only a nudist in my closet. I get a lot of mileage out of naked jokes in my fiction, though, because, well… naked is funny.

Revelation #3; I keep scrapbooks filled with collages made of pictures from magazines, newspapers, photos I’ve taken, pictures I drew myself, poems, short snippets of things I find funny or ironic or autobiographically important, and secrets like I am sharing with you today. (The picture of Goofy seen here is one I colored myself from one of the old coloring books left over from my kids’ coloring book days. I hate to see unused coloring book pictures go to waste.) I call these my magical tomes because I use them as source material for the spells I weave in my fiction. I also use many of the images for drawing and painting as models. I also discovered I can borrow whole images and make new art using my cheap-o substitute photo-shop program.

Revelation #4; It is totally by accident that I have come to look like the most important character in Snow Babies, the novel that PDMI is slowly publishing for me. Catbird Sandman is an old hobo who wears a coat that has so many patches on it that it has become a patchwork crazy quilt. He wanders around the country, appreciating the world and its people, and using his considerable store of mysterious abilities to charm, help, and change people. He carries around a book, a well-worn copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and quotes from it, treating it like a sort of Bible-like source of spiritual wisdom. The character looks like Walt Whitman. And now, though not intentionally, so do I. I grew the beard and long hair because of psoriasis. It attacks me under the edge of my jaw line and all around the back of my head. It is easily scratched and bloodied, and then infected when someone cuts my hair or I try to shave. So I have given up that battle and gone all hippy-dippy. It sorta fits with the whole jobless, shiftless, former nudist sort of persona that I have been cultivating as an author.

So what is the equation Goofy Squared all about? Well, if you take the square root of the four Goofy revelations in this post, you come up with Goofy times two. So Goofy obviously equals one. And I think I have clearly proven that I am the goofy one.

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Tagged as artwork, autobiography, clowns, humor, novel characters, paffooney, teaching, wisdom

February 6, 2015 · 1:47 pm

Klowns

Over the past 50 years I have spent considerable time creating my own cartoons and cartoon characters. In general I have always been stuck on adventure cartoons. Milt Caniff’s Terry and the Pirates and Roy Crane’s Buzz Sawyer were always foremost in my goofy little cartoonist’s mind when I created. I made an entire universe of characters and space-opera plots for what started as Zebra Fleet and would turn into Aeroquest. I tried my hand at sword and sorcery fantasy with Hidden Kingdom. In more recent years I started journaling in cartoon form with Adventures in Fantastica, a story that involves my dream self, Mickey. and a number of people from my real life, past and present, re-cast as talking animals and other weird cartoon characters.

I can’t publish stuff directly out of this large and ever-growing pile of cartoons because it is a pen-and-ink rough draft and includes lots of personal information about family and friends… and former students. It is also x-rated at several points. It is actually about my life. But there are weird and wonderful story-arcs in it that could easily be converted. The section set in Clowntown in particular… (Klowntown if I write it in Fantastican Kambobbulated Language) is a good story about a Klown detective named Squiggy who is trying to catch a thief who stole the heart-tarts from the Queen of Hearts. I want to try making this into a cartoon strip that I intend to publish here on WordPress as a sort of web comic. Don;t know what web comics are? Here is one my son put me onto that you should give a look-see; Two Kinds

The Klowns in today’s Paffooney are Klowntown Kops. They reveal what the average beat-klown-kop looks like in Fantastica. They are pratfall and slapstick clowns that use rubber whack-bats and pie-whacker pies (like the Ray Brad-berry Sci-Fi Pie the Klown is holding, ready for pie-whacking bad guys.)

The Koming of the Klowns

Here you see me doing some serious art-starting. I am working on ideas about how clowns can be compassionate. I am hoping this is true, because I am one… a clown, I mean. But I have some serious noodle and doodle work to do. So I will start with a doodle of Klown Kops from Klowntown’s finest. More will be explained later… and more will be doodled too.

Stupid People

It is generally considered an insult to call someone “stupid”.

Okay, I get that. I am not without feelings on the subject. Stupid people have feelings just like I do. But if I have to live with “nerd”, “geekazoid”, “brainiac”, and “four-eyes”, I am thinking they don’t have to be more sensitive than I am.

Truthfully, life as a mentally gifted person of no color is a bit of trial even if people don’t generally understand that. I have an I.Q. in the range of 155, (calculated from my ACT and SAT scores using standard statistical analysis, give or take 5% for margin of error due to the nature of the calculation… am I scaring you yet?) I had trouble fitting in with my peers as a child. I related better to older people rather than my appropriate age group, and until my best friend, a preacher’s kid, moved to town when I was nine, I really had no friends and was routinely picked on and preyed upon by other kids. It was so bad that I was making C’s and D’s in school primarily because I didn’t want to be identified as smart. Once the eye doctor hung black horn-rimmed glasses on my face, my fate as a socially doomed uber-nerd was sealed. And my friend Mark, who would grow up to become an actuary with mathematical gifts, moved away when I was a freshman in high school. I had to help stupid people with homework and class work… I was required to endure threats, bribes, and tearful pleas to help athletes cheat on tests. Bullies made me tie their shoes and endure endless jokes about the size of my private parts. Life was terrible until I decided to go out for high school football. I was small and thin and probably doomed as I made the team, but I had a secret weapon. I understood almost instinctually that angles, trajectories, and leverage can make the difference over sheer muscle power. During one football drill where we had to pick up and carry our partner for five yards, I was matched with the big offensive tight end, George Merlock, who outweighed me by almost a hundred pounds and was literally Incredible Hulk-like in football pads. I simply used my shoulder on the proper spot under his armpit and lifted with my legs. I picked him up and carried him for twenty yards when some of the other players who were bigger and stronger than me couldn’t even lift him. After that moment, I was never bullied again. For one thing, I impressed George so much that he would’ve killed them for even looking at me cross-eyed. Life got better. A cheerleader asked me out on a date (though I said no because I thought they were still making fun of me… which I later learned I was mistaken about and I had accidentally hurt her feelings).

So what does that whole long-winded whiffle-story of my misspent youth have to do with stupid people? Well, I am one. (Doesn’t the cheerleader thing prove that?) Smart people can be stupid more often than your average ordinary Joe. A character like Sheldon Cooper on Big Bang Theory is funny because his intelligence and his social abilities are so wildly mismatched that he often makes totally stupid geekazoid mistakes.

But there are also stupid people who are actually not smart. Writing humor has taught me to draw upon the experiences of people I have known who were less than knowledgeable. People with lower than normal I.Q.’s. Life has taught me to value and even love people like that. In my novel Snow Babies, at least one of the clown characters is a stupid person. Harker Dawes is an inept businessman in the process of destroying a successful business that he bought from one of the town’s most beloved and respected elders. He immobilizes himself with super glue. He gets nailed to a poster board with a nail gun. Accidents and near-fatal pratfalls are his trademark. And yet, he is a sympathetic and loveable character. He is generous to a fault. He has a simple, good heart. Practically everything he does is a mistake, and yet, people grow fond of him and help him out because they appreciate his innate goodness and value as a person.

So, I really think calling someone stupid can be a sort of compliment. Forrest Gump calls himself stupid, but that character from Winston Groom’s novels and the award-winning movie of the same name is really a very wise and lovely man, though he is not smart. I have to say that I really no longer resent being called stupid, because no matter how smart I actually am, stupid is sort of a compliment. (But how about climate-change deniers, Texas politicians, and anybody who believes what they say on Fox News, you say? They are not stupid. That is willful ignorance. It may take a whole other post to make that difference clear.)

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Filed under characters, clowns, colored pencil, drawing, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney

Tagged as artwork, autobiography, clowns, drawings, humor, novel characters, novel writing, Paffoonies

November 12, 2014 · 1:39 am

The Inner Clown

Sometimes it is entirely necessary to acknowledge the fool and the helpless, hopeless clown that lives inside us all. Okay, I hear what you are thinking. Not you. There is no clown inside of you… only me. That is one of a myriad of mistakes that makes me acknowledge that I am far short of perfection. I am not a know-it-all. I am a know-it-sometimes who too often tries to bluster his way through like he isn’t completely unsure of himself and terrified that other people will see what he truly is and laugh him out of business. I am a pratfall, butt-of-the-joke, snicker-at-snidely sort of buffoon who never gets it right and deserves every guffaw thrown at him. Clowns are often all blue, squishy, and sad on the inside. That is often the only thing that makes us funny. Do you know what brought on this wave of self pity? Of course you do. No man ever went through a day of stumble-muffs and misquotes, goof-ups and stubbed toes like I did without feeling at least a little bit that way. Oh? Not you, again? I hear you. It must be nice to never make mistakes. I have my car registered with the wrong registration sticker. When I tried to get the State inspection done, I found out my car is now supposed to be the old van my wife destroyed in a car accident last spring. My bank’s bill-pay service has twice sent money to the electric company which somehow lost the electronic check. I can’t even handle idiot-proof details any more. My son who was home on leave went back to the Marine Corps early this morning. I took him to the airport and had to bring all his deodorant spray, shampoo, and toothpaste back home with me because soap on an airplane equals terrorist. Apparently that should’ve all gone into the bags we checked, because that stuff only explodes in the carry-on bags, never the baggage compartment. I am called out for my many writing mistakes, even the ones I made on purpose trying to be funny, and my self-editor let me down on several occasions in the past week. So I am depressed. At life I am, at best, a .125 hitter, barely making more than one hit in every ten at-bats. I am a rodeo clown trying to play in a basketball game, and the bulls are all Michael Jordan. (How’s that for a mangled metaphor?) But it isn’t all the blues that I am singing. Good things have happened too. Life continues in my unlikely body afflicted with six incurable diseases, and I am a cancer survivor since 1983. The golf-ball sized growth the surgeon removed from the back of my head last week was benign, no sign of cancer. My son was home on leave. Every day is it’s own miracle. And I have gotten some writing done. So what if every editor and every reader doesn’t fall in love with every single word? The story goes on for at least another day.

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Tagged as clowns, colored pencil, feeling sorry for one's self, goofiness, humility, humor, Paffoonies, photos

March 30, 2014 · 4:55 pm

The Jester, The Fumbler, The Fool

Much of what I love about good story telling is bound up in the nature of the fool character, or the wise fool, if you will. Shakespeare is probably the consummate creator of fool characters. Jaques in As You Like It, Falstaff in Henry IV and Henry V, the King’s Fool in King Lear, and even Polonius in Hamlet. The fool is essential to the story because he serves several important purposes. He is a foil for main characters in the unraveling of the plot, providing exposition through dialogue, wit and wisdom in commenting on the events, and pratfalls and innuendos for the further amusement of the audience. He is the Harpo Marx character, Chaplin’s Little Tramp, any Red Skelton character, Lou Costello, Jerry Lewis, and every foolish talking animal in cartoon adventures like Scooby Doo.

So, I have tried to include the clown in my stories of childhood in Iowa, the land of imagination and corn. In my newest novel, Snow Babies, the key clown is Harker Dawes, a good-hearted bumbler who has bought the hardware store in Norwall, Iowa and quickly managed to turn it into a bankrupted and foolishly failed business. He is in control of essential supplies for a small town to use in surviving a raging blizzard, but he is also totally incompetent and capable of creating as many problems as his store can solve. He is a bachelor uncle living with his brother’s family of three, and he becomes one of the people most responsible for taking in the four orphans from the bus.

Today’s Paffooney is a picture of Harker in his store. Of course, I can’t tell you the name of the real-life person that Harker is based on. But I can tell you that I drew this portrait by combining his real-life mug with the features of Rowan Atkinson. In fact, if a miracle happens and they make this story into a movie, Rowan Atkinson would be perfect for the part. His first name is even the real name of the town that becomes Norwall in my story. Stewart’s Hardware Store is no longer there anymore. Even the building is gone, but the image in the background is close to the antique feel of that wonderful old place.

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Tagged as artwork, clowns, colored pencil, drawing, fool characters, humor, novel, paffooney, small town hardware store

March 1, 2014 · 11:38 pm

Thanks for the Memories, Mr. Disney

This post is going to sound an awful lot like stuff and nonsense, because that is what it primarily is, but it had to be said anyway. Last night my family took me to see the movie Saving Mr. Banks, a deeply moving biographical story of P.L. Travers, the creator of Mary Poppins, and how she had to be convinced to surrender her beloved character to the movie industry which she so thoroughly detested and distrusted. It is also about one of my most important literary heroes, Walt Disney, and how he eventually convinced the very eccentric and complicated authoress to allow him to make her beloved character into a memorable movie icon.

“We create our stories to rewrite our own past,” says Disney, trying to tell Mrs. Travers how he understood the way that her Mary Poppins character completed and powerfully regenerated the tragedy of her own father’s dissolution and death. This is the singular wisdom of Disney. He took works of literature that I loved and changed them, making them musical, making them happy, and making them into the cartoonish versions of themselves that so many of us have come to cherish from our childhoods. He transforms history, and he transforms memory, and by doing so, he transforms truth.

Okay, and as silly as those insights are, here’s a sillier one. In H.P. Lovecraft’s dreamlands, on the shores of the Cerenarian Sea, north of the Mountains of Madness, there roam three clowns. They are known as the Boz, the Diz, and the Bard, nicknames for Charles Dickens, Walt Disney, and William Shakespeare. These three clowns, like the three fates of myth, measure and cut the strings of who we are, where we are going, and how we will get there. They come to Midgard, the Middle Earth to help us know wisdom and folly, the wisdom of fools.

Why have I told you these silly, silly things? Do I expect you to believe them? Do I even expect you to read all the way to paragraph four? Ah, sadly, no… but I am thinking and recording these thoughts because I believe they are important somehow. I may yet use them as the basis of a book of my own. I enjoy a good story because it helps me to do precisely as Mr. Disney has said, I can rewrite my own goofy, silly, pointless past.

Tag Archives: clowns

Why You Should Shoot Yourself in the Foot Rather Than Vote for Donald Trump

The Politics of Clowns

Family Stories

Goofy Squared

Klowns

The Koming of the Klowns

Stupid People

The Inner Clown

The Jester, The Fumbler, The Fool

Thanks for the Memories, Mr. Disney

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