Thursday, August 28, 2008

"Klippy the Klown Presents" Bringin' It Back Old Skool



Y'all - it's been some time since we had a visit from our chipper clown friend Klippy. He just popped up, and he dragged this "Oldy But Retardedy" short story out from his Sack of Wonders. He wants to share it with you!

Klippy the Klown Presents:

"Lil Miss Staples"



by Brett Breckenridge

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Staples.

Now, Staples lived in a little village where the main source of income for everyone was milk. Why, her own father was a dairy man by trade. "If it weren't for those cows out there in that field," he would say over their humble nightly meal of bread and beets, "I'd be living in the gutter and so would you, little Staples."

Staples, a wee child of four, loved the cattle. Oh, how she used to sit in her room watching the cows stand there for hours, shifting occasionally, swatting flies with their tails, all the while churning up that frothy white treat for her to drink at breakfast. Yum!

She dreamed of tugging on those bulbous pink udders just like her daddy did all day. Oh, if only she could get to those udders! Her daddy had warned her on several occasions to stay away from the milking room until she was older and more able to handle the bulk of those cows.

"But daddy, I AM big enough!" she would lament, sometimes stomping her clogs down into the well-trodden earth with such conviction that her father would shake his head and say, "She got that from her mother," before walking back to the pasture.

After a particularly good batch of beets, Staples asked her daddy what the meaning of life was. Her daddy, a wise but simple man, answered as best he could: "Be happy. Do what you want to. Otherwise you end up old and mean like your grandmother over here," and with that, he pointed his pipe at the wattled old crone in the corner, who grunted disapprovingly before gumming another mashed beet.

"Oh, thank you papa! Thank you!" Staples cried, as she hugged her daddy around the neck and rushed upstairs to plot her activities accordingly. She sat and planned for about an hour, and then got an early start on her sleep: tomorrow was a special day for her.

That night she dreamed of free-flowing rivers of milk on the banks of which all the children of the world came and joined hands before drinking from the untainted elixer in a gesture of peace and harmony.

She woke up beaming and put on her best frock. Then, grabbing her gloves and hat, she made her way down to the milking room, oh so quietly, so she wouldn't wake papa or grandma on her way to her destiny.

As she trundled ever so gingerly on the dew-laced grass, still sharp with the smell of morning, she remembered how to grasp those udders with force and squeeze all that milk out. At least, that's what she thought; she had only really watched papa doing it once, and when he caught her gazing, he made her leave. "This is no place for little girls!" he shouted as he shooed her out the door.

"I'll show daddy. When he wakes up this morning, he'll find the freshest milk ever waiting for him on the table."

She neared a cow.

"Good morning," she said, and patted the cow lovingly before taking her place near the low-hanging appendage which had fascinated her for so long.

"Now, take it easy, Lue-Ellen. I'm just going to milk you. You're used to that," she placated the beast. But when she grabbed that udder and squeezed as tight as she could, digging her little digits deeper and deeper into that nipple, Lue-Ellen jolted forward and let out a terrific moo before stomping Staples' face right into the dirt.

Staples' fingers grasped the milking pail so tight that they had to bury her with that pail.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Purulent Unthinking Mindless Apes - PUMA


Here we go.

PUMA - or, "Party Unity My Ass" - is a group of stupid fucking loudmouthed jackasses who are determined to derail Barack Obama's chance at winning the presidency all because, boo-hoo, their choice - Hillary Clinton - wasn't nominated.

Guess what - people's choices aren't nominated in EVERY election process. In most instances, people suck it up and vote for the member of their party who WAS nominated. They don't cling to their candidate and whine incessantly like a ululating band of overly-emotional morons that their nomination was "stolen" from them. They don't yodel that they're going to do everything in their power to make sure the person who DID win the nomination - and who did so through the popular vote - doesn't get elected.

I hate to break this to you - but if Obama doesn't win, McCain does. What's worse for you? Do you want someone who will fight for women's rights to choose whether or not they have control over their own uteruses, who states he will do what's right for the environment, who is not a war-mongering and big-business pandering asswipe, or do you want John McCain? Because if you stupid fucktards don't get your heads out of your asses and move past the fact that Hillary Clinton didn't win the nomination, you're going to get John McCain. And then you'll feel like the dumbasses you're acting like RIGHT NOW, and we'll be stuck with four more years of hell.

I didn't vote for Obama in the primary. No, I did not. But I'm going to vote for him in November, because I, like most people in the country, am not acting like a thumb-sucking dipshit over this whole thing. Yes, it was a nasty primary - and guess who had a lot to do with that? Ms. Hillary Clinton herself. She had a loud, nasty mouth most of the time and said things that were damaging not only to her campaign, but to the Democratic Party in general. And altough I still think she was the best choice (a roadkill duck is a better choice than John McCain), I am going to do what is right for the country, and for the world - I'm going to vote for the next best thing. And that's exactly what you "PUMA" turds should be doing too... not acting like Rebel Without a Cause and stirring up a bunch of nastiness.

Jesus, you people are stupid. If you fuck this election with your inability to get over this shit, I'll hold you responsible.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Teen angst - does it ever end?


Last night I went over to my friend Mina's house to have a light vegan dinner and enjoy some John Hughes films.

I brought Pretty In Pink and Some Kind of Wonderful - two films written but not directed by Hughes. I had been hankering to watch Pretty In Pink since my friend Gina wrote recently that she had watched it and been reduced to tears by its sappiness.

Now, I've had difficulty with this film for years, and I'll tell you why. Annie Potts plays the manager of Tracks - a record store Andie (Molly Ringwald) works in, and Molly looks to her as a surrogate mother. She asks for dating advice, they reminisce, they hang out together. Annie Potts seems to be the perfect role model for an outcast teen in a heartless, cruel world - she's self-assured, she's artsy, she's brash, she doesn't take any shit from anybody.

And then it happens. She meets a guy and, from what I remembered, basically dumps her personality and turns frumpy just to fit in to this guy's view of womanhood. I never forgave her for that. For YEARS I wouldn't watch this film because I felt betrayed by Annie Potts' character. YEARS.

But I finally relented. Gina's judgment is something I trust wholeheartedly, so I figured if she liked it, I probably would too - perhaps my recollection was incorrect.

I popped the bitch in. Of course its portrayal of the high school caste system, particularly in the sleazy fuck-dump character played by James Spader, is ludicrously over the top, but is in many ways true.

I remember very clearly a rich, stuck-up cunt named Marti Spondheimer who sat behind me in science class and ridiculed me ENDLESSLY - on a daily basis - because I wasn't wearing Guess jeans or whatever else was in fashion. I hated her then and I hate her now. I hope she works as a Clinique consultant at Dillard's. I hope she's fat. But that's beside the point.

As I was watching this film, I got dragged in. It was like a time machine back to 1986, when Lisa Tamburello changed my life by lending me "The Pink Opaque" and "Love's Easy Tears" by Cocteau Twins. When I had my first gay crush on a kid in my French class. When I started coming out of the shell of insecurity I had been placed in due to the utter nightmare of middle school. And all of those emotions from 1986 were fresh and new all over again.

When Blaine asked Andie to the prom I cried. I literally balled up in a fetal position. Is it because I'm an overly-emotional retard? Probably. Is it because my life is bereft of anything other than geekery and yoga? Most definitely. But still - this shit has a tremendous impact on me to this day - and I HATED high school.

Annie Potts' character redeemed herself, thank goodness, and my relationship with Pretty In Pink went back to the one I had with it when I saw it in the theater with Dana Deberg, Jennifer Mixon, Vanessa Cobbley, and others. Field trip...

Mina, after we watched the too-over-the-top-for-its-own-good Some Kind of Wonderful (the only redeeming qualities of this film in my mind are a) The March Violets and b) Lick the Tins, both featured on the soundtrack), decided it would be a "good idea" to pop in Sixteen Candles.


Now - for anyone who was 12 - 15 in the early 80s - this is, by far, the quintessential nostalgia film. It can render the most emotionless bastard a mound of quivering jelly by its ending. Seriously. Tell me one person who saw that movie as a child who doesn't have to hold back the overwhelming need to vomit from too much emotion by the time "If You Were Here" starts playing. It gets me every time - it's like I've been punched in the stomach.

As the cars pulled away and Jake Ryan stood there leaning up against his Porsche, Sam staring incredulously as he says "Yeah, you" to her - Mina and I both started blubbering. Like slapped newborn babies.

Mina and I were talking about it last night. We're both in our 30s and we're both still waiting for Jake Ryan to pick us up outside that church. Still feeling that awkwardness Andie feels when Blaine takes her to a party at Steph's house. Still going through what Watts has to endure watching Keith woo Amanda. And still reeling from telling a group of strangers that our elephant lamp that we made in shop didn't work when we tried to turn it on.

Do these feelings ever go away? Does anyone ever actually attain a level of fulfillment that calms these various emotional struggles? Or does "Teen Angst" just turn into "adult angst" and linger with us forever?

Can someone explain, please?

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Have You Met Lydia?

Picture it - I'm walking out of the Whole Foods on Houston and Bowery, minding my own business, after a lovely vegan luncheon with my friend Jackie, when I am assaulted by an obnoxious mob of overweight children, apparently involved in some sort of YMCA day camp.

They're all wearing matching t-shirts, and I am immediately drawn to how those t-shirts are being stretched to the limit by these children's Jabba-esque rolls of undulating blubber.

These are children, for God's sake. They're supposed to be frolicking in parks and jumping on pogo sticks and playing hide and go seek, not gnawing on an endless supply of Hot Pockets and Cap'n Crunch while becoming codependent on their god damn PlayStations.

Jackie and I begrudgingly shuffle through this maze of underaged obesity in an attempt to get to the clear sidewalk on the other side, when I see it.

One of the camp counselors, a young woman, has one of the most egregiously tacky tattoos I have seen in my life.

Attempt to visualize, please.

Tweety Bird's disembodied head atop a cumulus cloud, halo in place above the bulbous decapitation, with the name "Chandra" written underneath in garish cursive.

Who is Chandra that she warrants such a tasteful tribute? Is it this woman's daughter? Is it her mother? Is it a dead pet budgerigar?

I don't know. What I do know is that this woman was clearly so desperate to jump on the tattoo bandwagon that she didn't think through the fact that she is going to have Tweety Bird's severed head on her arm for the REST OF HER LIFE.

Now, we've all come to accept tattoos as part of the culture. Some are beautiful, some aren't. Some people get tattoos to mark a period of time in their lives they want to remember forever, or as a rite of passage. Some just get them because other people are getting them.

They're so commonplace these days that for the most part I just brush them off. Sometimes, though, I just can't. For example:

The only other tattoo I have ever seen that affected me as strongly as the one I saw today was at the Red Hook city-run pool - a hotbed of tragedy and horror.

Fatasses bring their families to this pool, charring chicken on portable grills around the pool's gutters, shrieking into cell phones and arguing animatedly with one another in a strange hybrid of the English language that is barely discernable as a form of advanced communication. The water appears clear, but when one steps on the pool's floor, sediment separates and reveals the true nature of the elixir in which hundreds of troglodytes are bobbing and, I'm sure, expelling all sorts of bodily fluids.

My friend Barbie and I used to go to this pool every Saturday, despite the heightened risk for catching ebola (or worse) simply because we were trying to be healthy and outdoorsy during our summer. For me, going to this public pool felt marginally like going to the Admiral Farragut Academy pool I used to spend my summers frequenting back in St. Petersburg (minus the cool lifeguard who used to blast Q-105, introducing me to the hits of the late 70s and early 80s), but I finally just had to say "NO MORE" after finding something I won't describe here floating in the water.

Meanwhile, back to this tattoo. Barbie and I are standing in line waiting to get in. There's this rotund midget in front of us in a bikini top that is struggling to support her enormous bosom. But that doesn't distract me from the true tragedy of this person's physical being.

Imagine this, please - a tattoo of Bamm-Bamm from The Flintstones, club raised overhead as if ready to perform his one and only action throughout the show's run, with the name "DARNELL" scrawled underneath it in airbrush-like lettering.

BAMM-BAMM.

"Barbie, Barbie, oh my God, look at that bitch's tit," I whisper, trying to be subtle, but it's not working, since I have already gasped audibly and placed my hand over my heart as if I just saw a dog getting hit by a car.

I saw this image probably five years ago, yet it is burned into my memory as if I witnessed it yesterday.

Is Darnell happy that he is immortalized in such a sophomoric, idiotic way on this woman's sagging, over-tanned teat? And what the hell was running through her mind when she thought it would be a good idea to get this hideous mockery of a tattoo?

Sadly, these tragic permanent manifestations of man's collective idiocy are still on the rise. You can see asswipes displaying their gaudy, horrifying tattoo "art" everywhere, whether it be the hick who thought it would be "funny" to get Ronald McDonald being blown by Grimace on his lower back or the dumb hippie who loved the Grateful Dead so much that he just couldn't live for one second longer without a Steal Your Face logo overlaid with a marijuana leaf.

Tattoo tackiness is a sad symptom of today's thoughtless, throwaway culture. To deface your body with a permanent design for absolutely no reason other than to fit in proves exactly how inane you truly are. It's your body, not a sheet of paper you can just rip out of a notebook and throw away. So if you're going to get a tattoo, get one that doesn't suck, please.

I have HAD IT with this crap.