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Category Archives: General Skwib
Clown Apocalypse: The Clownsickle
One of the worst things about the clown apocalypse was just sorting out the sick from the opportunistic psycho-killers, who used the disaster to cover their own heinous activities.
Many victims of these clown psychos, or clownsickles, as they are now known in the official history of the Clown Apocalypse, the Tome of Whiteface, were first responders: EMTs, cops and of course, the Carnie Corps.
In case you’ve lost your copy of the Tome of Whiteface, The Carnie Corps were a secret organization that had been preparing for the Clown Apocalypse since the times of Ancient Rome. (Of course, they used to be called the custodes de stercore, or keepers of the dung, in those days.) Since the times of the Circus Maximus, long had it been prophesied by the keepers that there would come a time when the buffoons would run amok, and whiteface would cover the world. Only the ancient order of the custodes de stercore would be able to stop them.
Alas, none of their carny mind tricks were a match for a pscyho-killer with a chainsaw, and the Carny Corps were devastated in the early time of the apocalypse. Who knows what horrors might have been avoided if we’d had their ancient dung-wisdom to help us?
Tragic as these early deaths were, there was poetic justice, as most of these clownsickles would succumb to the bozo virus themselves, and usually clowned themselves to death in gruesome and horrible ways. (Chainsaw juggling was by far the most common.)
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Read the other parts of Clown Apocalypse: Clown Apocalypse | The Day the Laughter Died | Moments of Hilarity | Beach Happies | The European Atrocity | The Sexy Cataclysm | Buffoonibilism | The Clownsickle
Alltop is the killer clown of humor aggregators. Ridi pagliaccio, a photo by Funky64 (www.lucarossato.com) on Flickr.
Dr. Tundra enters a bar …
Dr. Tundra enters a bar and orders a drink. The bar has a robot bartender, with great drink-making and conversational algorithms, but no facial or voice-recognition software.
The robot serves him a perfectly prepared Peyote Sling, and then asks him: “What’s your IQ?” Tundra replies “150″ and the robot proceeds to make conversation about quantum physics and spirituality, chaos and environmental interconnectedness, string theory, nano-technology, and the sexual proclivities of the common earthworm.
Tundra is impressed.
He decides to test the robot. He walks out of the bar, turns around, and comes back in for another drink.
Again, the robot serves him the perfectly prepared drink — this time a Viking Fizz — and asks him, “What’s your IQ?” Tundra responds, “about a 100.” Immediately the robot starts talking, but this time about football, hockey, baseball, supermodels, brands of beer, guns, and women’s breasts.
Really impressed, Tundra leaves the bar and decides to give the robot one more test. He heads out and returns, the robot serves him a Budweiser and asks, “What’s your IQ?”
“Er, 60, I think,” Tundra slurs.
And the robot asks … real slowly…
“So…………… ya gonna vote for the Republicans again?”
Artwork by the incomparable Brian Despain. Alltop doesn’t like the traditional joke structure, but laughs at them anyway. Joke inspired by a stolen email from Dave Duncan, who got it from somewhere else, I’m sure.
Peyote Sling recipe
2 tsp superfine sugar
2 tsp water
1 oz lemon juice
2 oz Scotch whisky
3 dried peyote buttons, powdered
1 twist lemon peel
1 peyote button
In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the sugar, water, lemon juice, peyote powder and scotch. Shake well. Strain into a highball glass. Garnish with the lemon twist and peyote button.
Clown Apocalypse: Beach Happies
Of course, many people had been going about their day-to-day business when they were afflicted by the Bozo Virus.
Some were at work, some at home, but some had been on holiday when the plague struck. They showed all the same symptoms of the other victims: the outbreaks of Red Nose, Sad Face, Happy Face, and of course, the grotesque, frizzy, multi-colored Goofy Hair.
But there was something about the calming and joyous effect of being at the beach that changed the disease, in ways that were subtle and almost impossible to see. These victims were just as determined to do their clowning. They may have not had access to balloons to make balloon animals, or pins for their juggling, but they made do with shells and rocks and rotting fish, which, when stuffed down someone’s pants is actually pretty funny. (Unless you’re the stuffee.)
The ocean itself became a prop for their bits. (Though some of these sufferers did drown, as the Bozo Virus attacked the parts of the brain controlled muscle memory, using all the capacity for pratfalls, acrobatics and the aforementioned juggling, and thus destroying their ability to swim.)
The media called the calming effect a “beach happy”, and it was almost a joy to see.
Unless you happened to be on a nudist beach.
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Read the other parts of Clown Apocalypse: Clown Apocalypse | The Day the Laughter Died | Moments of Hilarity | Beach Happies | The European Atrocity | The Sexy Cataclysm | Buffoonibilism | The Clownsickle
Alltop liked to skinny dip in the Lake of Funny.
Psycho Clown, a photo by Phil Kneen(www.philkneen.com) on Flickr. Originally published March 2012.