Gil The Carnie, Carnival Folk Unite!

Surviving Prison

2006-02-22T18:17:00.000-07:00

Most ya’all don’t know how easy it is to get sent ta’ prison. It’s as simple as not doin’ your taxes proper like or not payin’ your parking tickets and even crushing a clown with a two ton Farris wheel. So if ya’ find yourself being carted off ta’ the Big House good ol’ Gil has a sure fire method of keeping you from being shanked full of holes and the holes ya got not full of stuff you don’t want them filled with.

There are two types of people in the Pen who don’t get messed with: the big tough guy and the scary crazy guy. Now let’s not kid ourselves and just focus on learning to be the crazy guy. These are sophisticated times so just craping in your hands and rubbing it in your hair isn’t going to cut it as the crazy guy any more. You have to sell it and REALLY be that crazy guy. Just follow my ten step program to Crazy Prison Guy and you too can confidently pick up the soap in the shower.

1. Talk to your meals. Really communicate with that cheese sandwich and explain why you have to devour it for you own sustenance. Sob softly with every bite and make sure the other inmates can hear you apologizing to your sandwich with every mouthful. Show spite for all things fruit.

2. Punch yourself in the neck every time someone mentions toothpaste.

3. When talking with other inmates replace the word “and” with “roisterer subterfuge”.

4. Train yourself to blink each eye out of sequence.

5. Stare fearfully at over head light fixtures and with your head tilted up make sure you allow saliva to build up in the back of your throat. Then quickly inhale deeply driving the spit deep into your lungs. This will create a very dramatic and spastic coughing fit. Once you’ve regained your composure loudly proclaim, “Wow, that was a tasty lemon”.

6. Every chance you get, insistently deny that you’ve ever eaten a baby giraffe.

7. From time to time, forget how to enter rooms.

8. Pay off another inmate to tattoo your back with one of the following phrases:

Puss Monkey

Mommy, NO!

Brown Lumps

Infected Blister

Waffles

9. Thoughtfully lick your scabs.

10. Constantly compare the prison guards to “that guy from the Sling Blade movie”.

February 21, 2006

2006-02-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

Killing a clown isn’t as easy as it looks… and, believe me, neither is trying to hide it.

The Death of Señor Swats-o’lot

2005-06-08T03:02:00.000-07:00

As any Carnie worth his weight in candied apples will tell ya’ that local rubes can be trouble so if ya’ ain’t packing protection you’re gonna’ be sucking on redneck knuckles.

Mary-Lou carries the standard 12oz canister of teargas, Bodo has a length of pipe he keeps tucked in his overalls, Sweats has a pocket full of rocks for some reason and Dwarf Mel was always a little partial to a roll of quarters in a sock, but for me it was Señor Swats-o’lot. A yard long hunk of bamboo frayed at one end like truck backed over it or like a fairly devious fellow had skillfully carved out strips into the end of the stick possibly with his Leatherman® SuperTool® 200.

The beauty of Señor Swats-o’lot was in it’s unique multi-punishment design with the sturdy brutality of the bamboo and the humiliating stinging of the rapid slapping of the frayed end. Nay, there’s nary a delinquent teen who’s felt the business end of Señor Swats-o’lot an has dared to attempt thievery in the lair of the “Whack ‘em Cats” booth.

Yes, in the past 12 years Señor Swats-o’lot has served me well in the teaching of lessons to mouthy hillbillies, dirt covered children and charitable organizations, but all painfully humiliating things must come to an end. While in a rousing game of “Drunkin’ Frog Bludgeoning” I lost Señor Swats-o’lot to the creek.

I’ve been experimenting with new side arms like those cardboard tubes from paper towel rolls, a hammer, ping-pong paddle and heck, even a cattle prod, but it’s just not the same. I’ve been hearing a lot about these Titanium Pipsticks®, hmmm.

Carnie Neologism

2005-06-01T20:09:00.000-07:00

ne·ol·o·gism
NOUN:
1. A new word, expression, or usage.
2. The creation or use of new words or senses.

Like most industries and cultures words are created specifically for that industry/culture as it doesn't exist in general use; ie, computer industry, film industry, Star Trek freaks. Here are some more typical Carnie words ya’ might hear while getting a snow cone or shooting water inta' a clowns mouth.

Rube – The dictionary defines Rube as “An unsophisticated country person”, but the Carnie definition is “Obnoxious carnival patrons dumb enough to spend $50 trying to win a $3 sombrero and then get mad at you when they don't.”

Gravispewer – This word applies strictly to rubes blowing-chunks on the Gravitron as it is the most applicable. Other tummy tumbler rides also have their own regurgitating terminology: Squirrel Cage-Purger, Tilt-a-Hurler, a Zipper Stomach-Spiller, Barf-Bag Bouncer.

Durnerber – A too intoxicated rube. Ya'all think this would be easy pickings for a Carnie, but they ain't nothing but trouble. Sure you can work over a drunkard into spending every thing in his wallet to knock over a couple of milk bottles with a really squishy softball, but Durnerber's are the fallin' down knocking over your display, screaming about cotton candy with spiders in it, chasing the dwarf, scaring away the customers, urinating in your booth onionheads.

Shakings – Stuff that falls outta' rubes pockets while on rides and after closing time becomes the property of Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny, but more specifically the Carnie who got to it first. In the case of two Carnie's reaching it at the same time a seven round Carnie slap fight determines the rightful owner.

Cripesanwoolly – An undercover cop desperately trying to be undercover. They mostly go around tryin' out games to see if they're legit or investigating us to see if we're running some sorta' gambling/prostitution/white slavery/drug ring. Explaining to these guys that we're not the circus doesn't work as they just fire back with their “I'm not a cop, man. I just want to play a little Ring Toss an see if I can score some pot or maybe an infant.”

I'm Number 1! Whoot!

2005-05-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

Mel the Dwarf has been trackin' my web slaps an' page peeps (er… some thin like that) since I was on my forced sabbatical. Sos Mel hooked up this search trackin' thingamagig to my site and found that I'm number 1 on several Google searches. Here are the top searches leading to my site based on actual search referrals by some seriously silly people.

Number 1 Google Searches
carnival folk
carnie games
carnie carnival
carnie pictures carnival
teenagers who are jerks
trainspotting ceiling baby (thanks Latigo)
girl buts
folk da gang (?)
carnie sarah polley (Hey! That's outta' 164 pages)

Other Google Searches
boobs and buts #2
whack-a-cat #2
carnival games, skee ball #3
carnie folk #4
carnival vs circus #4
dwarf phrases #5
circus freaks carnival #6
corndog batter #6
boobs ans ass #7
clowns eat children #8
carnie #9 (damn you Carnie Wilson)
skinny boobs #9

Sos if you're here to read the drunken ramblings of a carnie or jus looking for some skinny boobs I feel we can all agree that butt has two Ts. It's girl butts not girl buts and if you're looking for that you're going to be even more frustrated going to this site. Nothin' sadder than an illiterate deviate.

A Day In The Life O' A Carnie

2005-05-26T20:32:00.000-07:00

Nows the time to confess, I've been back at Bader Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny for about a week now. Eh, it was anticlimactic, sos I figured I'd just skip it. I caught up to the carnival in a frightening part o' Los Angeles an found Mel the Dwarf between deworming a goat an scrubbing down the fruit bats at the pettin' zoo. Alls I got was a "man nod" followed by some grumpy mumbling about always disappearing when there’s work ta' be done. Sweats just yelled at me for not finding a proper substitute for the "Whack 'em Cats" booth while I was on vacation then I comes to find out that Sanders had completely forgotten himself as my archenemies when he got promoted to the side show as the new Alligator Boy. Well at least my severed head in a pickle jar, Headly, seemed glad ta' see me. Eh, so I'm back now and trying to get back into my routine.

6:00am – Depending the debauchery from the night before I either wake and roll outta' Mel's spare bed in his trailer, my tent, the "Whack 'em Cats" booth or a tree.

6:05am – 7:00am – Wash up at the nearest gas station, creek or garden hose then a quick breakfast o' day-old corndogs and Orange Pow!® with Mel. Sweats usually makes his rounds assigning who's on puke patrol and stuck with the punishment of running the "Lost Kids Corral". Me and Mel are usually hiding in the "Bonking Badgers" game around this time.

7:00am – 8:00am – Repairs to rides, touch-ups to game booths, grounds clean-up and running around with a high pressure fire hose trying to knock the crouch stink off of the more pungent carnies.

8:00am – I stand before my booth taking in the mingling smells of fried food and diesel fuel with the sounds of popping balloons and air-breaks. I know my day's begun.

8:00am – 10:30am – Working the rubes, though at this time in the morning the only rubes available are elderly speed walkers and kids under the age of 12. Both have the uncanny ability ta' ignore you to the point o' wanting to hit them with some thing or if they do come up to my booth will only spend $2 and talk to ya’ until you want to shove sharp objects inta' your own ears.

10:30am – 11:00am – Playing "Slap and Gargle" with Mary-Lou.

11:00am – 12:00pm – Stuck at the "Lost Kids Corral".

12:00pm – 12:30pm – Having a Gyro power lunch with Mel and Bodo Diddles while Tina tends to my torn scalp and child bite wounds.

12:30pm – 1:00pm – Back to my booth to wrangle a few more rubes then restocking of Coors mirrors and oversized stuffed Scooby-Doo's.

1:00pm – 2:00pm – I'm watchin' my stories!

2:00pm – 3:00pm – Back to the booth to catch the mid-afternoon rush of surly teenagers ditching school and middle-aged businessmen taking their large breasted secretaries out for some platonic fun. If ya' press the right businessman you can keep him for hours trying to win a plastic lobster for Miss Jugs.

3:00pm – 3:30pm – Smoking.

3:30pm – 5:00pm – Daydreaming about beating up those jerks my 8th grade class, Sarah Polley, that bottle of hooch saved for later, Sarah Polley cooking me bacon, having a million dollars, Sarah Polley washing my hair, being shot in the shoulder while stopping a bank robbery that saves a bunch of peoples lives while Sarah Polley is watching, how many cigarettes I can fit in my mouth.

5:00pm – 10:00pm - Doing what I do best. Working the game on the rubes.

10:00pm – 10:30pm – Close up shop.

10:30pm – With a hard day behind me. Mel an I get gussied up to crash the underage parties and high school dances. Hey kid, you think you're impressing people by talking loudly about the party you're throwing with your folks outta' town, but as far as me and Mel are concerned it's just an open invitation.

I'm Freakin' Out Here

2005-05-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

Okays, to really understand Gil The Carnie ya' have to understand what causes him to wake up screamin' frum a drunken' coma at 3 in the morning. I’ve made a list of da' creepiest things that I typically have ta claw off ma' body in my hallucination-tic booze-haze.

(Warning: If ya' can take pictures of creepy bugs and animals may I suggest DarthMoridin with his Star Wars fetish, Latigo who's probably talkin' about how manly it is to be kicked by a horse or look at John Bosco's funny pictures)

Aye-Aye

Look at it! Look at those fingers! *shudders* Waking up in cold sweats wit that on da' pillow next to ya'. Yeah, you’d scream like a little girl too.

Draco Lizard

Flying freakin' lizards! Nuf' said.

Tawney Frogmouth

I think it's a bird, but it's more like Jim Henson nightmare.

White Nosed Guenon

I love monkeys, but come on! It looks at ya' with those big sad eyes then it goes fer your throat.

Clowns

In my closet with a big knife, under my bed waiting ta' grab my ankle and on ma' ceiling when I’m lying in bed.

Stargazer Fish

Why God, why?!

Potato Bug

Sweet sunny carpet tacks! Arrrggggh! No seriously, arrrrgggh! I've had arguments wit Mel about how I'd rather have a cobra stuffed down the front o' my pants than have ta' have one of these bastards crawl on my arm. One more time, arrrrggggh!

Nows don't worry about me too much. When my little friends start gettin' me a little too freaked I likes ta' go to my happy place.

70’s Cartoons: Why Hippies Shouldn’t Interact Wit Children

2005-05-10T21:03:00.000-07:00

Raised ba' hippy parents ands a product o' da' disco culture explains a lot 'bout ma' phobias and some o' ma' more bizarre traits, buts 1970’s cartoons are what’s warped ma' generation.

Da' Death O' Originality; We was da' first generation ta' see originality tied ta' a chair an's have it’s nose hair plucked out one bys one with cartoon rehashes o' old TV shows likes My Favorite Martians, Lassie, Star Trek, Emergency!, Jennie, Addams Family, New Adventures of Gilligan, Da' Brady Kids, Da' Osmonds, da da da. What, no pilot fer da' New Hawaii Five-O Cartoon Adventures where Steve McGarrett an' Danno Williams are teenagers ina' rock band an' they solve crimes wit their wisecrackin' pet marmot “Pickles” who always get dem' is sum wacky situation.

OH! Lets no ferget “Da' Same Shit in Space” abominations; Josie an' da' Pussycats In Space, Gilligan's Planet, Partridge Family: 2200 A.D., Yogi's Space Race, Happy Days Gang (okays sos dis' one was time traveling, buts close enough). Ma' favorite was Erik Estrada’s Galactic Romp Rangers.

Nows da' “What da' F*&K award” fer the most mental damage inflicted ona' entire generation o' 6 ta' 14 year olds has ta' go ta' Sid and Marty Krofft. Man, what's wrong wit these guys. Da' consensus at da' time musta' bin dat' kids during da' 70's musta' been hopped up on goof-balls, buts da' closest thin I had ta' drugs was Fruity Pebbles® an's I needed ta' devour at least 4 blows o' da' stuff befer I started ta' hallucinate. H.R. Pufnstuf, Lidsville, The Bugaloos; talkin' flutes, talkin' hats an' Billy Barty dressed in a demented bee costume are da' things nightmares are made o'. An thanks ta' The Krofft Supershow an' Electra Woman and Dyna Girl I nows have an unhealthy obsession wit woman in spandex. Well dat' an' da' Solid Gold dancers.

Okays, yeah, Sid an’ Marty “Don’t Eat The Brown Acid” Krofft did create da' kick-ass Bigfoot and Wildboy an' Land of the Lost, buts it doesn't make up fer da' creeping terror know as da' Bay City Rollers Show.

I cans honestly say dat' da' only truly good thin' ta' come outta' 70's children programming has ta' be Lancelot Link, Secret Chip. Trench coat wearin', banana throwin', secret agent monkeys, HELL YES!

Movies Not To See When Drunk

2005-05-08T22:00:00.000-07:00

Whens yer' on da' road as much as a Carnie da' all night movie theater is a' second home. Da' first home bein' seedy nameless bars reekin' o' despair and cat pee. Nows as much as a Carnie loves movies he loves his hooch, buts mixin' da’ two cans lead ta' public embarrassment 'er possible night in da' poky.

The Shawshank Redemption – Okays sos da' “suds on da' roof” an' “Brooks was here” scenes wills give ya' da' man chokes where ya' gets a lump in yer chest an' clenched jaw wit quiverin' lower lip tryin' ta' fight back da' tears, buts that's nots da' finishin' move. Whens Morgan Freeman starts his “I hope to get across the boarder. I hope to see my friend again and shake his hand. I hope the pacific is as blue as in my dreams. I hope.” Bwah-haw-haw! *snork* Whaaaa! *sniffle* Followed by da' cold stares o' people leavin' da’ theater.

Braveheart – Yeah, lets jus' see ya' tryin' get past da' “Freedom!” scene wit a quart o' Wild Turkey in yer' gullet an' not snap inta' a screamin' fit o' “Why God, why! It soulda’ been me!” whilt violently shaking da’ guy in front o' ya’.

A Christmas Story – Dis movie jus' pushes all da' right buttons on how lousy every onea' yer Christmas' was an hows yer parents never surprised ya' wit an official Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-Shot Range Model Air Rifle wit a stock an' a compass. Watchin' dis movie under da' influence will lead ta' repeated kicks ta' da' seat in fronta' ya' an' hurlin' popcorn buckets wit large soda at da' screen. Forcible ejection frum da' theater is inevitable.

Stand By Me – Oh dis isn't jus' a one or two scene whimper movie, oh no dis' is 90 minutes o' no-holds-bard bawlin' public humiliation fest. Frum Teddy’s perpetual torment o' Vern fer “two for flinching” ta' Chris cryin' ta' Gordie about stealin' da' milk money an's when da' movies over an ya realize dat da' Chris Chambers actor, River Phoenix, is dead in real life dats when ya' drop ta' the theater floor in a big crybaby mess. Rollin' around in da' fetal position 'til da' lost Milk-Duds® an' candy wrappers adhere dem selves ta' yer face an hair. It'll be fine once ya' sober up an realize dat yer friends when ya' were 12 would typically chase ya' around da' school yard wit a stick wit dog-poop on da' end whilt callin' ya' bubble-butt really loud sos Stephanie Riceacher, who ya've had a crush on since da' 4th grade, can clearly hear. F*&kin' bastards.

Any movie wheres a retarded person gets wrongly accused o' sum thin an' is hurt, ostracized or killed – These movies are jus' screwed up. I means seriously, not cool at all. I don'ts care what Academy Award winner is playin' da' retard. NO! Bad!

The Crying Game – I jus' gots ta' say dat da' little surprise in dis' movie WILL induce projectile vomiting and an uncontrollable urge ta' see a hockey game immediately.

Bleu – Actually all foreign films should be avoided whilt drinking heavily. Double vision an' subtitles will lead ta' gross misinterpretations sos you’ll be cheerin' as ya' think da' hero jus' won over da' girl, buts in actuality it's da' hero's evil Siamese twin who's havin' forcible “relations” wit his own sister whilt the tormented gorilla watches frum a closed circuit T.V. Art house filmgoers are mean an' will throw empty bottles of wine an' apple slices at ya.

All movies staring Sarah Polley – Okays, sos dis' is a Gil T. Carnie exclusive, buts if ya' ever heard da' howls o' despair an' loneliness frum dis Carnie ya'd understand ma arrest record a little better.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 12

2005-05-04T21:44:00.000-07:00

THE THING! (insert ominous music here): Ina’ desolate stretcha’ Arizona Interstate 10 highway, far frum rational human bein’s an’ effective roll-on deodorant lies “Da’ Mystery o’ da’ Dessert!” better knows as “The Thing!” Oooo. “Da’ Mystery o’ da’ Dessert” conveniently located ina gas station wit gift shop an’ a Dairy Queen®.

I first noticed da’ billboards fer’ The Thing! jus’ out sida’ New Mexico whilt desperately clutching da’ luggage rack o’ a speedin’ Durango. Nows as a disturbingly obsessive John Carpenter fan I gots all excited ats da’ prospect o’ seein’ a mutated dog-man-spider-monkey dat even da’ repeated peltin’ o’ high speed bugs in ma’ mouth an’ good eye couldn’t bring me down… much.

I’lls save ya’ da’ details o’ my disappointment whens I finally gots ta’ see The Thing!, buts I’lls jus’ say dat’ I was so disheartened I couldn’t finish ma’ Peanut Buster® Parfait and I’m a man who loves his Peanut Buster® Parfait. Nows it woulda’ been silly ta’ argue wit management fer ma’ $0.75 admission fee back sos I did. Afters da’ second hour o’ me wailing likea’ was givin’ birth ta’ a porcupine on fire an’ drvin’ off $2.25 in customers he finally gaves me a job. Carnie callin’ rubes ta’ see “Da Mystery o’ da’ Desert!”

Since dar’s no real town ta’ speak o’ an’ foot traffic in da’ middle of da’ desert is ona’ down-swing, I had ta’ take ma’ act ta’ da’ interstate an’ flag down rubes there. A real nice lady tooks dis’ snapshot o’ me sos ya’all can see how well I’d been doin’ at it.

To Whom It May Concern:

2005-04-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

Gil T. Carnie has been subpoenaed it yet another Yak molestation case as Mr. Carnie has had a prior “incident” that follows similar circumstances and involves the same accused Yak.

“Ya’all cans suck ma’ big, hairy, rust colored nuts if ya’s thin’ I’magonna talk!” Mr. Carnie exclaimed as he was forcibly carried by bailiffs from the witness stand during a Grand Jury hearing.

Mr. Carnie stated that he made a promise to God and cheese sticks (?) that he would never talk about what occurred in those Michigan woods. His refusal to speak landed him a stay in the county jail until he is willing to assist prosecutors. This will probably be four or five days from now. Depending if Mr. Carnie gets drunk once released he’ll be back to Blogging by Saturday.

-Jim (some guy Gil paid $20 to write this)

Havin’ one eye does ‘ave its drawbacks

2005-04-20T21:21:00.000-07:00

All right sos outside o’ da’ obvious disadvantages ta’ bein’ a Cyclops such as ma’ dart game gonna’ ta’ shit an’ havein’ onion-heads sayin’ “Arr, matey! Swab the poop deck!” ta’ me. Here are a fews of da’ lesser thought o’ problems wit bein’ univisioned (isn’t dat’ a Latino television station?)

Flirtin’ wit women turns outta’ be jus’ plain weird as every time I wink at dem it jus’ looks like I’m blinkin’ seductively.

On hots days, an eye patch can makes fer a sweaty socket. I’ll jus’ not explain dat’ one any further.

Whens talkin’ ta’ people ya’ can see der’ gaze movin’ ta’ da’ eye patch den’ an’ whens ya’ show dat ya’ notice they look around guiltily likes ya’ just caught dem’ spankin’ da’ helmeted hermit.

Den’s thars da’ pity in da’ strangest places, like ridin’ on a crowed bus an’ a pregnant woman offered me her seat. Hey lady, I’ms missin’ an eye not ma’ kneecaps, buts who am’s I ta’ turn down a free seat.

Nows heres one dat threw me, peoples getting’ freaked whens I go ta’ shake dar’ hands or might touch dem’ in anyway. Likes dar’ gonna’ catch sum disease that’ll make der’ eye pop outta’ der’ skull like a champagne cork.

It’s not alls bad days though, peoples always buyin’ me drinks ta’ hear da’ story o’ how I lost lefty, kids think I’m cool when I’d show dem’ da’ empty socket an’ even da’ ladies seems ta’ respond better ta’ da’ tough look da’ patch gives me. Heck I might jus’ get one o’ dem’ 8-Ball glass eye. Man dats classy.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 11

2005-04-18T21:53:00.000-07:00

I AIN’T NO JACK KEROUAC: Through Indiana in da’ back o’ a station wagon, in an’ outta’ Kentucky ridin’ bitch ona’ Harley, slidin’ through Missouri strapped ta’ a luggage rack, across Arkansas on da’ lap o’ a man in a motorized wheelchair, den’ right inta’ Texas on da’ handlebars ofa’ Schwinn.

Nows bys the time I made it ta’ da’ Texas State Fairgrounds I’d missed Badger Boy by two days. As I stared at da’ strewn garbage o’ a weekends worth o’ torn ride tickets, cotton candy cones, Tilt-a-Whirl spew an’ gnawed corndog sticks. Dats when it dawned on me… corndogs! All dis trouble was over corndogs! Yeah, dat’ weasely demon spawn monkey spunk Sanders left me fer dead in da’ land o’ leotard clad French Canadians, buts it all started wit da’ corndogs.

Whens Sanders joined ups wit Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny ‘e was pimply faced seventeen year old surly punk wit his black leather clothes an’ da’ attitude of a baboon wit hemorrhoids. Buts Sweats said ‘e saw sum thin’ in da’ kid and putt’em on da’ corndog cart. Nows food carts are usually reserved fer da’ second ringers who’d been wit Badger Boy long enough ta’ be trusted not ta’ wiz on da’ snow cones or dip dar’ dangly bits in da’ Orange Pow® dispenser.

Sos Sanders on his first day decides ta’ set up shop right in front o’ da’ “Whack-em-Cats” booth blockin’ da’ rubes frum da’ cat wackin’ action. I decided ta’ calmly an’s politely inform Sanders dat’ his cart is blockin’ ma’ cash-flow an’s if ‘e didn’t move it I’d be playin’ hide da’ corndog wit his rectal cavity. He mumbled sum thin’ ‘bout not takin’ order frum toothless hillbillies an’ dats’ when I started chasin’ him wit an absurdly large Bart Simpson©®TM porcelain piggybank. ‘E gave me da’ slip around da’ “Slappin’ Sammy” booth an’s I just moseyed back ta’ ma’ booth, but I’s didn’ get five feet befer I heard a horrible crash behind me.

I rans ta’ da’ scene an’ found Sanders unconscious an’ pined under da’ corndog cart wit most o’ his torso deep-fried an’ scorched wit corndog batter. After da’ ambulance had takin’ ‘em away I found out frum Bo-Diddles dat’ he saw Sanders runnin’ franticly past da’ gard gate fer da’ Ferris wheel an’ he collided wit’ a carriage on da’ downswing. He flew five yards wit da’ cart on toppa’ him dowsing ‘es body in boiling fryer oil, corndog batter an’ fixins’. Da’ worse bit was how delicious he smelt.

All dat was two years ago, but it alls makes sense now. He’s been harboring a resentment ta’ me believing it was ma’ fault fer da’ demotion ta Poop-Patrol at da’ pettin’ zoo, havin’ ‘es pay ducted ta’ pay fer da’ corndog cart, da’ endless skin grafts an’ probably fer the new nickname I gave ‘em; Kentucky Fried Sanders. Sum people ares so petty.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 10

2005-03-15T12:29:00.000-07:00

SHUT IT OFF; Boobs over breakfast, boobs durrin’ ma’ smoke break, boobs on ma’ shoulder whilt readin’ Koontz, boobs boobs boobs boobs (kinda’ soundin’ likea’ Monty Python skit). Ifs ya’ ever thought dat a man could ever gets tired o’ seein’ whoopee-watermelons all day long well YA’ BETTER BELIVE IT. I won’t even gets inta’ ma’ cooter overwhelm. Cooter? I don’t even know her.

Wells go figure, it turns out dat’ I’ms actually pretty good at ma’ job. Wit sum creative twists frum ma’ “Whack ‘em Cats” callin’ I had a fairly good “Whack ‘em Beaver” spiel goin’ (yeah, I knows it’s a cheap joke, deal wit it).

“Gather ‘round, gather ‘round! Enter da’ Beaver Trap an see parts of a’ woman’s anatomy dat gynecologists have only read about! You sir, you! No bad day ever started wit sum boobs in yer face.” Sweet cripes and candy apples, I’ll need a shower after dis.

Thins really started ta’ go down hill fer me after talkin’ ta’ Skinny an’ tellin’ him bout sum of the carnie games I used ta work. He tooks a real interest inda’ goldfish game wheres ya take a ping-pong ball an’ toss it at a’ cluster o’ goldfish bowls an’s if ya’ get it inta’ the bowl ya’ gets a goldfish ina’ little plastic baggie (NO, you don’t knows where this is goin’ an if ya do yer a sick individual).

Sos da’ next night whatta’ I sees, I sees dat Skinny has advertised game night at da’ Beaver Trap. First game up, da Ping-Pong Catch where “Safire” repeatedly shoots ping-pong balls frum her well trained cooter canal inta’ the gapin’ mouths o’ customers who, if da’ slimy projectile is caught wit der mouth only, gets a free lap dance. Next was da’ Titty Ring Toss followed by a version of da’ Skee-Ball game dat was too disturbing to describe.

Nows I knows and accepted dat’ there’s a lot o’ people who’ll do disgustin’ and degradin’ thin’s fer money, but the defilement o’ da’ carnie game is jus’ too much! I grabbed ma’ stuff an’ ma’ last check an’ walked off. I hit da’ highway wit my thumb out ta’ hitch a ride knowin’ the further I gots from that abomination da’ better I’d feel. Wells the upswing frum all o’ dis is dat’ I haven’t seen da’ inside of an emergency ward in a while.

The Gut Wrenches Quiz

2005-03-14T15:35:00.000-07:00

Ta’ take da’ Gut Wrenches all yas have ta’ do is read the statements below an’ if you’ve ever heard the comment in relation to yerself that’s one point. Add up da’ points an’ see where ya’ rate on The Gill O’ Meter©®TM.

1. Girlfriend/Boyfriend or spouse: “We need to talk.”

2. Doctor (snapping on rubber glove): “You’re going to feel a little pressure.”

3. Boss: “I need to see you in my office.”

4. Mother or Father: “I want to talk to you about what I found in you room today.”

5. During “intimate” time with significant other: “Are you done yet?”

6. Cop who just pulled you over: “I’m going to have to ask you to exit your vehicle.”

7. Supermarket Clerk or Restaurant Waiter: “I’m sorry but your credit card’s been declined.”

8. Barber or hair stylist: “Oops.”

9. Priest during confession: “You’re kidding, right?”

10. Your cellmate “Betty”: “You’re going to feel a little pressure.”

Nows tabulate yer points fer The Gill O’ Meter©®TM.

0 – Superb, but yer probably a shut-in or way more fortunate than 99% of civilization… you jerk.

1-2 – Excellent, yer livin’ the good life, but you don’t know REAL pain!

3-4 – Average, ya’ probably got knots in yer stomach jus’ frum readin’ the quiz.

5-6 – Poor, buts I bet ya’ got sum really good stories.

7-8 – Piss Poor, yer probably very bitter an’s drinks a lot a’ scotch.

9-10 – Gil The Carnie, now don’ go doin’ any thin’ drastic. Jus’ take a breath an’ remember this is jus’ a quiz. Good, now fix yerself a drink an’ crack open dat Stephen King book ya’ been puttin’ off. Ya’ll feel better in a couple hours.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 9

2005-03-13T18:32:00.000-07:00

MONEY FER NOTHIN’ AND DA’ CHICKS ARE FREE; Bein’ a 20 year carnie veteran has opened ma’ eyes ta’ a few fundamental truths; Wombats make lousy house pets, Super Glue an’ duct tape can fix any thin, never tease a man who has a girls name, an’ workin’ a job ya’ don’ enjoy is like a long bike ride on a hard seat wit a butt fulla’ hemorrhoids.

I spent ma’ first day in Detroit poundin’ da’ streets fer a source o’ income an’ came up crap every time. I’s tried ma’ hand at hot dog push cart sellin’, handin’ out flyers, insurance salesman, dog groomer, school counselor, buts each job had the inherent danger o’ getting’ hit by stuff throwns by crabby adolescence. Sos in a fit o’ desperation I built a “Whack ‘em Cats” booth outta a refrigerator box an sum beer cans all drawn up wit a sharpie ta’ look like da’ cats. I set up shop jus inside a small park ans began ma’ beckoning siren carnie callin’. Buts before business could really pick up I was rapidly ejected frum da’ park by the long arm ofda’ law. Sum thin’ bout bein’ licensed an’ scarin’ joggers by leapin’ frum the bushes whilt screamin’ bout “whackin cats”.

Thrown out again, I was right downs in da’ dumps then a skinny Aqua-Velva stinkin’ rube saunters up ta’ me in a suit thata’ blind ya’ if ya’ look directly at it. Skinny says dat he saw ma’ carnie performance an’ wanted ta’ offer me a job.

(Audience participation time. Nows knowin’ ma’ track record fer havin’ sum thin that looks like a good deal on da’ surface; will I end up in da’ hospital, jail, chained up in sum guys basement or sexually assaulted by yet another large animal?)

Sos Skinny leads me ta’ a little scummier parts o’ town den’ stops at a theater an’ points proudly at da’ marquee. “The Beaver Trap”, great more beavers. Ma’ last runs in wit beavers led ta’ reconstructive surgery on ma’ tender bits. Skinny den’ explains that his establishment was not in fact a pet store buts a strip club an’ ma’ job would be ta’ use my carnie caller talents ta’ drive in more customers.

I don’ts understand strip club patrons at all. I means it’s like bein’ really hungry an’ payin’ twenty bucks at a restaurant only ta’ have da’ waiters pass da’ plates of food in front o’ yer face. An’ if ya’ pay another twenty they’ll put da’ food on yer table, but if ya’ go fer a taste ya’ gets kicked out. Nows workin’ in a strip club is morally repugnant even fer a carnie, buts the thought o’ eatin’ outta Sonic Burger dumpster again was even more morally repugnant. Sos I reluctantly tooks da’ job knowin’ full well dat’ by the end o’ da’ week I’ll probably be forced inta’ women’s clothes ta’ give lap dances ta’ drunk skinheads. *sigh*

Road to Badger Boy: Part 8

2005-03-12T22:15:00.000-07:00

Catchin’ da’ Bus; Where was I… drunk tank, new eye patch, sum thin ‘bout trout… ohs yeah. Sos da’ State o’ New York, after a week o’ rottin’ in a drunk tank bein’ analyzed by several head shrinks declares ma’ little Greyhound freak fest an isolated incident ans’ I was released (thoughs I suspect ma’ laps in heath insurance helped dat’ descision).

Wit no bus ticket or money an’s a brain fulla’ crappy movie trivia I figures I’d pulla’ De Niro frum Cape Fear an strap maself ta’ the undercarriage of a Greyhound. Ta save time I’lls just summarizes.

Attempt 1: Action - Fergot ta’ bring sum thin’ ta’ tie me ta’ da’ bus. Consequence - Lost grip just outta’ da’ parkin’ an’ gots ran over. Hospitalization - 2 weeks.

Attempt 2: Action - Armed wit rope securely tied maself. Consequence - Tied maself ta’ the drive tran that spins A LOT which created a kinda’ Carnie taffy. Hospitalization - 6 days.

Attempt 3: Action - Roped maself closer ta’ da’ front of the bus. Consequence - Tied maself ta’ a really hot part o’ da’ engine ans’ it took four paramedics an two quarts o’ Vasoline ta’ peal ma’ BBQed ass loose. Hospitalization - 9 days.

Attempt 4: Action - Ran outta’ rope sos I used da’ only thin available, bungee cords. Consequence - Every bump caused me ta’ ricochet violently frum speedin’ pavement ta’ steel bus belly like a demented SuperBall®. Hospitalization - can’t remember.

Bys the time o’ “Attempt 5” I noticed dat I was outta’ New York State an’ well inta Michigan ans’ had da’ pleasure o’ stayin’ in every hospital between. Wit at least sum miles on da’ road I figured da’ best course o’ action ista’ avoid buses an’ Robert De Niro flicks at all costs (except Goodfellas). Nows I had ta’ jus’ get ma’ hands on sum hard cold cash, heck even sum limp room temperature cash would do.

Road to Badger Boy: Part Steven

2005-02-28T16:52:00.000-07:00

My Pancake Is Melting!; Whens I refused to poke Charles’ liver he smacked me wit a piece o’ boiled meat then he crawled inta’ the Coke machine coin return. I leapt at the machine stuffin’ ma lips inta’ the small slot.

“For God sake, man! Whata’ bout the fudgesicles?!” I screamed, but he musta’ not heard me. The Dr. Pepper was pretty loud.

Some thin’ was wrong. I felt ma’ face an found dat ma’ eyebrows switched places. “Gads! The bull-weevils are flyin’!” I dodged right, somersaulted left den’ pounced on a fella’ wit da inverted head. Knowin’ dat bull-weevils have da power to command body hair ta’ der will, I snatched the cigarette frum inverted-head’s claw an crammed it up ma’ nose. I knew I needed more lift and separate.

Sum thin tackled me frum behind. Thunderstruck I bared ma’ powerful incisors an’ tried ta’ chew off ma’ torso ta’ escape da’ large beast lyin’ on topa me. After several hours o’ bitin’, slapin’ an’ wettin’ maself I was able ta’ flop like a’ trout ta’ freedom.

I ran ‘round in circles for several moments ta’ loose da’ beast den I threw maself inta’ the gappin maw of night. I don’ know how long ‘er how far I ran, but I suddenly came upon a beautiful bright light. It covered me wit a blindin’ glow dat seem ta’ intensify wit every second. I knew at dis moment that it was God callin’ me home ta’ da great carnival in da sky. Den the light struck me goin’ ‘bout 40 miles per hour.

I woke in a drunk tank sum days later. The Saab dat’ hit me an’ dragged ma’ pathetic carcass fer 30 miles didn’ leave me wit a single scratch. Funny thin’ though, I guess (according ta’ ma’ cellmate) I clawed out ma own eye ta’ get to the chewy nougat center o’ ma’ head. Life lesson learned; don’ do drugs kids an’ goin’ Greyhound can kills ya’!

Road to Badger Boy: Part 123456

2005-02-23T13:00:00.000-07:00

Electric Boogaloo; Okays, sos the twitchy fella wit the dead cat hat introduced himself ta’ me as General Moroidmonger. He then saluted an’ did wha’ I guess was a jig. I tooks a step back, not ‘cuz o’ the impromptu soft-shoe buts the stench of his head gear twas overpowerin’. He den quickly puts me ina’ headlock ans the two o’ us tumble behind a bench. Da Genderal then squishes his mouth ta’ ma ear wispers.

“I’ve been commanded by Chieftain Ving Rhames and Buddha’s left foot to eradicate pedo-beastil-necrophiliac’s! Have you seen any?!”

“Peoples ‘aven sex wit underage dead animals?” I asked an’ da’ General nodded like he jus lost a vertebrae in his neck. “Sorry, not ta’ day.”

He den pulls da’ bottle o’ Thunderbird frum ma hand an’ spits out, “IsthisyourscanIhavesome?!” An takes one long pulla’ ma’ hooch. He shoves da’ bottle back in ma hand, jumps ta’ his feat an’ darts outta’ sight. Wells when I got up I could see ‘em tucked in da’ corner o’ the room starin’ at sum thin on da’ ceilin’.

A little put off wit the excessive slobber on ma’ bottle I tried ta’ clean it off in da’ drinkin’ fountain, buts I musta’ missed sum or da’ General puts sum thin in ma’ Thunderbird ‘cuz after ma first swig thins gots real weird. I’ms pretty observant o’ stuff like da’ walls breathin’ an’ havin’ Charles Bukowski ridin’ a unicorn stop an’ ask me if Jesus would make a good infielder fer the Astros.

*Sigh* way does this crap happin’ ta’ me.

Road to Badger Boy: Part V

2005-02-21T19:56:00.000-07:00

Well it’s about God damn time; Quits gripin’ at me, I’m stills alive! Wheres was I… oh yeah, beefy chicks. Sos after a couple o’ days recoverin’ I founds ma’self ina’ survivalist camp (I guess ya’all ‘ave had enough time ter figure that out), buts on closer inspection what looked like ona’ my family reunions turns outta’ be sum thin more… evil.

Every ones was wearin’ bright colors, playin’ hacky-sack, lotsa’ huggin’ betweens people, kids runnin’ ‘round all naked, heck the only similarity between a fer reals survivalist camp an’ dis was the lack of bathing. Thas’ when it hit me, a Frisbee thrown by sum 30 sumthin guy wit dreadlocks an’ that’s when I notice wha’ was on his hip. A rectangular metallic object wit wires runnin’ frum it an’ bolted ta’ this sad sacks ears. I quickly peeped ‘round an saw every one had dis’ mechanical brain melter fused ter thar hip.

“I-Pods! HOLY CRAP MAC-HEADS!!” I screamed jus’ before passin’ out.

After I cames outta’ ma’ spaz nap I found a small groupa’ big teethed smilin’ hippies. They explained hows they created dis “utopia” survivalist camp ta’ prepare fer Y2K+8, da Macintosh year 2008 bug. A bug dat will threatin’ da’ livelihood of graphic designers and 3D animators worldwide. They told mes ‘bout dar’ vision o’ tryin’ ta fix da’ bug, but if unsuccessful they’d wade out da’ worst o’ da’ great Mac crash of aught-eight securely in der bunkers. Den they would rise up ‘gain ta’ reclaim da’ world fer peace, love and high resolution plasma monitors. Den they all turns ta’ me an asks if I shares thar vision.

Sos an hour laters onea’ da’ Mac-Heads drops me off at da’ Greyhound station in Yonkers. Evens gives me a little walkin’ ‘round money; dem hippy freaks ain’t too bad folks. Whelp, ma’ walkin’ ‘round money walked me straight ta’ a liquor store (ma’ back up hooch is gettin’ thin). Sitin’ in da’ bus stop wit a bottle o’ Thunderbird ana’ ticket ta’ Detroit. Thins were lookin’ up ans if I took better notice o’ the dude wit da’ dead cat strapped ta’ his head tryin’ ta’ levitate Burger King cups it might stayed lookin’ up.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 4

2005-02-08T15:25:00.000-07:00

FREEDOM!: After da’ exploding terd tank incident I gots ma’ sorry beaver bittin’ butt tossed onta’ a chain gang. Its not whatya’ think either. I knows the image of da’ southern chain gangs; in da’ sweaty Mississippi heat two rows o’ dust covered men swinging pick-axes on da’ side o’ back wood gravel road whilt beltin’ out blues harmonies thata’ make John Lee Hooker down a’ bottle o’ sleepin’ pills. Whelp, ma’ chain gang was jus’ a tad different; in da’ runny nose Niagara cold a row o’ parka clad men scrape dead things off a frozen highway whilts gently singin’ show tunes and Rush songs.

Ins da’ middle o’ pryin’ a fairly squished an’ frozen woodchuck frum the road I seen my opportunity fer escape, a garbage grazin’ moose. Wit the speed of meth freak after a leprechaun I leapt onda’ moose an’ we was gone.

An hour later da’ moose was able ta’ buck me loose (carnies have great gripin’ abilities) an’ left me wit a departin’ goring. Once I got da’ bleedin’ ta stop, I surveyed ma’ reclaimed freedom an’ quickly discovered I was in da’ middle o’ nowhere, again. Lost ta’ da wilderness but thank God and lozenges tha’ this time I had Latigo Flint's Field Guide to Edible Spoors.

After a fast snack o’ stuff I found under a rock, I hit da’ trail an’ not five feet later I was in a’ bear trap. I seems ta’ be a magnet for sharp spring loaded thins’ that like ta’ imbed themselves inta’ ma’ flesh. Ma’ high pitch girlish screams brought a couple o’ heavily armed hunters ta’ ma’ rescue. Though after a lengthy an’ confusin’ interrogation o’ my governmental and religious affiliations they pulled me frum the trap an’ dragged me back ta’ their huntin’ camp. Kinda large fer a huntin’ camp though. Cabins, large fence covered in barbed wire, buncha’ mean lookin’ dogs, lotsa’ grumpy ugly white guys wit big guns… hummm.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 3

2005-02-07T16:56:00.000-07:00

BUSTIN’ OUT: Whelps ma’ first prison break attempt didn’ go alls to plan. Ever since da’ email frum Sanders… God I hate Sanders! I’ve been keepin’ ma’ eyes peeled fer a quick escape an’ it came in da’ form of a tanker truck. A septic tanker ta’ be precise. I watched as it made weekly trips ta’ the big house, emptyin’ the prison poop tanks and drivin’ out an never checked once. I formulated a plan.

First I needed ta’ get to a lower security part o’ the prison an’ that’s the infirmary. Sos I complain ta’ da’ guard dat ma’ teeth really hurt an’ I needed ta’ go to the prison dentist. He says he needs ta’ see ma’ teeth ta’ make sure I ain’t fakin’, sos I flashed ‘em my daisy yellows an’ a disgusted grimace laters I’m in the infirmary ta’ see da Yank and Drill.

Da’ Dentist slides me inta’ chair then after sum coxin’ gets me ta’ opening ma’ maw. He stares at ma’ choppers fer what seems like hours then walks outta’ da’ office mumblin’ sum’ thin’ ‘bout a high power hose an’ Clorox. Sos quick like a marmet I’m outta the back door, down da’ drain pipe, shimmied to da’ septic tank an’ down da’ hatch. Now septic tank hatches are ‘bout the size o’ basketball, but anyone knows da’ all carnies are double jointed an’ can typically stuff themselves inta’ a beer cooler if threatened.

Now da’ plan was ta’ lay in wait till da’ tanker showed up an’ squeeze ma’ way through the pipin’ and off ta’ freedom. Ba’ as soon as I dropped inta’ that waist deep poo pool I was pretty freaked out. I don’ do to well wit dark enclosed places that smell like pee… reminds me too much of ma’ childhood home. Sos after a few minutes flintchin’ every time “something” brushed up against me I decided ta light a match.

Several hours later I was backin’ the prison infirmary all bandaged up ans’ I had a great view of the fire pit dat was once the septic tank. Docs said dat the methane gas explosion forced ma’ body to the bottom o’ the human waste pool which saved me from burnin’ alive, but they did have ta’ remove a “foreign particle” dat was lodged in ma throat. Less I know ‘bout dat foreign particle da better I’ll sleep at night.

Road to Badger Boy: Part 2

2005-02-03T13:54:00.000-07:00

LIFE IN THE BIG HOUSE: Despite alls the talk and rumors ‘bout prison it’s actually nots sa’ bad. I gots a sweet job in the shop makin’ hockey sticks, endless servings o’ bacon wit maple syrup and Molson on ice, lumberjack contests, sensitivity classes for American prisons to educate on the harms o’ Canadian stereotyping an’ thanks ta’ the beavers ma’ ass looks like ground hamburger sos no one in da’ showers bothers me when I drops da’ soap.

My lawyer says that beaver smugglin’ is only a misdemeanor offence sos I should be out in a month. I asked him what ya’ get for beaver biting, but I don’ think he got the joke. He just stared at me then left da’ room, eh.

Sos I was plannin’ ta jus’ twiddle the month ‘way by writin’ my memoirs, “Stop Starrin’ at Me Kid; A Carnie Tale” an’ maybe learn sum interruptive dance frum the frou-frou’s in Cell Block D. I knew Sweats an’ Mel would wait fer me, the greatest carnie caller ta’ ever grace da’ “Whack ‘em Cats” booth, but that was ‘befer I got this in my Hotmail Inbox:

“Greetings Dickweed,
How’s being left for dead in Canada treating you? Ha, ha! Here’s a tip for you, Gil the Looser, when you pass out drunk under some ones trailer make sure it isn’t a person who wants you dead. Ha, ha! Since your disappearance Sweats has had to put some one else in your coveted position and guess who that is. I’ll give you a hint; it’s the same person who just broke your single night sales record. Ha, ha! I’d love to chat more, but Mel and I are going to a midnight showing of Evil Dead 2 then we’re going to sneak into the lesbian bar and watch women kiss each other.
Hope you rot, S”

Sanders! This calls fer an all out carnie break out! Oh, IT’S ON!

Road to Badger Boy: Part I

2005-02-02T16:54:00.000-07:00

TROUBLE AT THE BOARDER: Sos wit a little luck I was able ta’ catch a canoe wit a fur trapper outta’ “somewhere” in Ottawa ta’ “someswhereelse” in Ontario. Though a’ long canoe ride cans be quite relaxin’, doin’ it wit a guy wit less teeth than me was a little disconcerting. “Gummy” the fur trapper took me as fer as a wharf in sum loggin’ town an’ not two minutes later I’d my next hitch.

By a bizarre twista’ fate ita’ turned out ta’ be Gordon Lightfoot. Nows I dun’know wha’ Gordon Lightfoot was doin’ in a loggin’ town wharf but when ya’re me ya’ don’ look a gift mule in da’ mouth or make crude assumptions ‘bout Canadian folk singers whos willin’ ta’ drive ya’ to the boarder. Whelp, after an hour o’ Gordon Lightfoot requests ta’ “pet” ma’ arm hair I was really missin’ Gummy.

Well Gordon Lightfoot came through an’ dropped me right at the US boarder. No worse fer wear an’ only slightly traumatized. Sos I mosey over ta’ the Duty Free Shop ‘befer hitting the good ol’ US.

Now they says that hindsight is 20/20. Yes, tryin’ ta’ smuggle them beavers cross the boarder was stupid an’ yes, lyin’ ta’ big hairy Mounties ‘bout the large bulges in ma’ pants an’ sayin’ theys was swollen glands was idiotic. But duct tappin’ those beavers to ma’ legs an’ buttocks was the dumbest thin’ I’ve ever done. I was only thinkin’ o’ Mel, he woulda’ loved ta’ have beavers fer the pettin’ zoo. Oh well. Sos after a quick trip ta’ the hospital ta’ take care o’ the scratches an’ bite marks I’ve been takin’ here… Niagara County Jail. Wells a’ least theys gots this really nice computer lab an’ hot meals an’ ma’ cell mate seems friendly enough. Though I’m not really comfortable wit the long hugs hes always givin’ me.

Ottawa?!

2005-02-01T13:25:00.000-07:00

Ok, sos five days ago I was in Red Bank, New Jersey drinkin’ diesel fuel wit Mel at the Sunny Brook Trailer Park nows I’m some where in Ottawa, shirtless, Melless wit jus a slight hangover. Leaping Moses and leprechauns its cold here; ma’ nipples culd cut diamonds.

Sos the story goes; a troupe of French-Canadian acrobatic-mime lumberjacks finds me rubber cemented to a’ spruce tree and belivin’ me ta’ be either homeless ors a hippy theys sled dog my butt to the closest church shelter. A liter of hot soup, a baguette, couple of hymns and an exorcism later I’m back ons ma’ feet and confused as hell.

Whelp, canna’ dwell on ‘dhat I’s gots ta’ get back to Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny befer’ Sanders gets his slimy meat-hooks inta’ ma’ “Whack ‘em Cats” booth. God I hate Sanders. BBCEH shoulda’ be well on its way ta’ Chicago by now, sos I gots to gets movin’. Well, after I gets another shirt… this Cirque Du Soleil one is startin’ ta’ chafe.

Whoo Hoo! I'm Drunk!

2005-01-26T20:34:00.000-07:00

Howdey hoo! I'm a' duzin sheets ta' da' wind and I can't feel my teeth! Whoo Hooo! What?!@ Der what?! Ah ha! I didn' think o' thata. Mel jus' ssaiod that we should take Headly ta' Taco Bell an' order him a mexican pizza... diya' thin' that Latino's pissed 'bout mexican pizzas. I mean tha' aberation of itiallina and mexican foods together? I'd be pissed. An' wha' the hell is a chulupa anyway?! Isin that the mexican goat sucker?! Kinda like Dracula but less glamorious! No nono, Iam not gonna use the spell checker Mel... I don care! HAHAHA! Nonono, shhhhh! Mel's pl.ayin' the bongos now! He he. We jus' wached te' Dawn of the Dead remake again sos were all riles up. I'll be Sarah Polleys zombie any day yah boy! I wana wrasle... who wants to wrasle me! What?!@ HAHAHA! Mel thinks Sweats is a zombie sos he wanas shoot him in da head. Ha ha haa huh... god I'm lonley!!1! Whyas Katie had ta' leave me? Oh god I thin i'm gonna pukce.

Hiya folks, Mel here. Gil ran off to the bathroom to vomit/cry. It’s actually pretty pathetic, but you have to understand he’s had twelve screwdrivers tonight. I tried to talk him out of doing a blog while drunk though when Gil gets an idea there’s no stopping him. Well I’m sure he’ll make excuses for this later, so I’ll just sign him off. Have a good night everybody.

I Hate Kids Parties

2005-01-21T19:41:00.000-07:00

Now frum time ta’ time Sweats likes ta’ whore carnies out ta’ birthday parties an’da like and if it weren’t for the extra green I’d tell Sweats to take a flying pantsless leap inta’ the Ring the Bottle booth.

So Sweats “recruits” me and mys “Whack ‘em Cats”, Lester and the “Tubs a’ Fun”, Bodo Diddles and Mel with the Pettin’ Zoo in tow. Wes sets up in sum ladies back yard and in minutes we’re swarmed wit kids. Kids with their snotty noses lookin’ all grimy, smellin’ a Sweet-Tarts™ and pee and touching all yer stuff wit thear sticky hands.

“Hey kids. Wanna’ try yur luck and whack a cat?!” I deliver my caller pitch with grace and volume, but I guess I pushed the volume a little too much as three of the young’uns immediately began to cry.

“No, no. Shhh!" I beg. "Shut up kid. Who wants to see a severed head?” But I couldn’t quail the brats bawlin’ before a couple of the parents scooped up thar little’uns while givin’ me the ol’ parental “whata’ ya’ done to my baby” look. *Sigh* Off to a great start.

Thins go fine for the next 20 minutes or so ‘til the barrel shaped birthday boy shows up with his entourage of 12 year olds. “You look like a homeless bum.” He says while violently purging frosting from a hunk of cake with hes front teeth.

“You look like a candidate for diabetes.” I fired back.

“What?”

“Here squirt try ta’ whack a cat.” I tossed a softball at the porker and when I saw him wind up his pitch like an epileptic putting on deodorant I knew I made a horrible mistake.

So as I was nursin’ my bloody nose contemplating how a softball ain’t so soft when I sees Sweats walkin’ round the side of the house with the tub‘o birthday boy’s mommy. Being the sneaky bastard that I am I decideds to follow and guess what ol’ Gil discovered? Ayup, mommy-dearest t’was playing her own carnie game “Spank the One-Eyed Trouser Trout” in Sweats pants.

Well, ‘nufs enough so I packed my gear, grabbed Mel outta’ the tree them damn kids ran him up and fer good measure swiped ona’ the fat kids presents. I don’t know whatta’ gonna’ do with a Lebron James action figure, but it’s better than what Sweats got from the party, a nasty case o’ crabs.

Do You Wanna’ Go Faster?! Yeaaaa… Puke!

2005-01-20T16:40:00.000-07:00

The Gravitron is one of the most popular carnival rides every made and next to the Squirrel Cages one of the most fowl to clean at the end of the night.

The Gravitron is one of them there spinny rides, built like a flying saucer with slanted padded walls that the customers are pinned ta’ when it hits full tilt, flappy cheeks G-force. At the heart of this “assault to your digestive system” ride is the DJ/control booth were’ Darrel blasts the top 40 hits of 1978 while multi-colored strobe lights flash insistently at every square inch of the interior ta’ ensure that if the ride didn’t make you spew chunks you’ll at least have a seizure.

So me and Mel finish for the day and are gettin’ar’ selves gussied up to crash the local high school dance when Sweats, da’ Park Boss, comes up ta’ us and says that Darrel’s down with shingles and we’ll have ta’ clean the Gravitron. Well after the obligatory pissin’ and moanin’ we grabs are slop buckets and diving helmets then start’d scrubbin’.

Now the upside ta’ cleaning the Vomitron is all the cool stuff ya’ find stuck behind the padded walls. Rubes have no idea how much stuff is pulled from their pockets in jus’ a couple of spins. Now the most abundant is loose change, but that’s not all; jewelry, keys, chap sticks, loaded guns, it’s like an Easter egg hunt only with crappy stuff from peoples pockets. But thus time we hit the uberfreakload.

It hadn’ been two minutes since I hoisted Mel inta’ the crawl space behind the head rests when I hear him let out a squeal of pure terror. After a few soothing words and a verse of “Easy Lover” Mel calmed down ‘nuf ta’ throw out the offending object. A human head. Not a fake plastic head or one of thems mannequin heads but a fer’ reals guys head. We stared at it, pushed it ‘round with our mops an’ even got up the nerve ta’ pinch its nose, but for the life of us we cuddin’t figure out where it came from. Not like sum dudes gonna come in with his head on then leave with it off. Then maybe some one brought it in, but woudn’t sum one notice a guy carrying around a head.

After loitering ‘round a head for an hour it tends to loose its thrill, sa me and Mel finished scrubbin’ the splattered upchuck, counted out $23.47 in free money and put the head in an old pickle jar. Wes take turns wit the head, Mel gets it one week and he keeps it on da’ top of his stool while when its my week I keep it right da “Whack ‘em Cats” counter. Its brought me good luck with the rubes too, more customers an’ less winnin’s. I guess the glassy gaze of a disembodied head floatin’ in vinegar is kinda’ distraction when ya’ tryin’ to whack ‘em cats. Mel’s wants to call’em Headly.

Teenagers Are Mean Jerks

2005-01-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

In a high profile customer service job like I have workin’ the “Whack ‘em Cats” booth at Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny I gets many types of customers. Most rubes are of the garden verity middle class zombie with the 3.2 young’uns, vacant stare and the glorious perpetual open wallet.

Then we’ve got the old codgers gimping after the grandson/daughter and spoiling Bobby/Mary rotten to make up for the horrible joke of parenting they did on their own ankle-biters, but that’s a story for a much later time.

But Mother Mary beans on toast, the one “customer” that’ll strike fear inta’ the most seasoned carnie is the rowdy teenager.

The typical scenario starts with three to four teenage boys and the occasional token female for the alpha-teen to molest while tormenting good honest carnie folk. So the three to four nazi rejects converge on the “Whack ‘em Cats” bellowing over emphasizing grunts of “Whack ‘em” while violently making jerking motions with their hands. Once they’ve finish congratulatin’ each other about how witty they are they slowly turn their slanted brows and dim eyes to me signaling the real torment is about to begin.

I’ved learned a long ago to ditch my usually caller pitch of “try your luck and whack a cat”. As it usually lead to an oversized Garfield crammed down my gullet, so I’ve adopted a much safer approach. Before the hairy knuckled teen can utter his first insult, which in all cases is “So, you like to whack cats huh.”, I look ‘em straight in the eye, puff out my chest and cry like a little girl who just found out her cat got hit by a car. I bawl so whimperingly pathetic that dogs howl to it. A hissy fit any four year old would be proud of and with that the teenagers slink away in such obvious disgust as to never return again.

Now I know it’s down right cowardly and painfully pathetic to pitch a fit of such magnitude to get out of a beatin’, but you didn’t see what they did to Mel when they caught him in his little cowboy outfit.

Bathroom Wall Literature

2005-01-19T23:07:00.000-07:00

So I was bathing in a Shell gas station rest room some where in Mississippi, which, by the way, the rest room looked like two people were having sex while stabbing each other exploded in, but I digress. While washing out some of my delicates I notice on the stall wall a story written obviously by several different people. At some point some one decided to write some thing then it would be added to by another rest room vendor until I found it. I copied it word for word and here it is complete unedited:

The wheels skidded out of control. He was spinning, he was going to die and he knew he would. But wait he thought “how did I get into this mess in the first place?”

Then he remembered! He was being chased by a policeman and he was going down a dark alley and then all the sudden he ramped off a big trash can and then he hit the brakes, very hard at a red light.

He was shocked, not so much by his survival but by the feat of launching a car over a trash can. He pressed a button that changed the color of the car just in time. The Police car turned the corner.

So Frank started driving to the dumpster to get his dog Long Mong. When he got there his dog was rapping to Snoop-Dog and wearing a “bling bling” and a Jersey so he took him to the dumpster next door.

He made it there in good time ditched the “bling bling” and Jersey, after that he made his way to his prerious engagement with his friends for a night of poker. When he got there though, the plans had changed…

Everybody surrounded him with knifes! He froze! He pulled out some ninja stars and threw them. Then he pulled out a short sword and a big dagger and started fighting the man and his hands started to glow with outrageous power and strength!!

The Power traveled to his sword & was releaced in an energy beam that disintegrated all his enemies, but one had blocked it. They locked in combat. The battle was very heated but he finally won.

And then he pooped on his backpack and then started to yell SHIT F*@K ASS BITCH.

“Excuse my French, that just sort of slipped out” he said to the pretty lady across the street who was staring at him in an uncomfortable way. Joe was a taxi driver and in all his years something so odd as a middle aged man taking a dump on the side of the street on a backpack.

Then Superman came down and take the lady and flew away! “No” he said “I must follow him!” Then all the sudden he got a call to pick up a woman! He went and picked up the woman! He thought she was beautiful so they went to his house and had S*X!!!

When they stopped they watched Finding nemo on DVD then went to a Chinese Resturant & had the 2 person buffet. “This was a fun date, lets do it again!” “Yes, lets!” she said. “In a week.” “No, now!” “I don’t want to!” “To bad!” “How dare you!”

And then he’s walking down the line that divides him some where in his mind on the boarder line whats F*@K upped and everthings alright uhoh uhoh The End

I really believe this speaks to all of us.

Dwarf Mel

2005-01-19T17:02:00.000-07:00

Ok, I don’t know what’s up with you people, but I’ve been receiving a lot of hippy hate mail about my reference to a urine smellin’ dwarf who doesn’t like to be poked. I only posted it yesterdays… whata’ ya’ all sitin’ around doin’ Google searches for dwarf phrases that might be “insensitive”. Hears a few edited quotes from my fan mail.

“You c**k smoking b*****d! I have a friend who’s a little person, you f***ing piece of s**t monger! It’s people like you who f**k up this planet with your m*******ing insensitive j***qe son of n****l t***idly x*******ty!”

“I’m a mother of a little person and I found your last blog to be very insensitive, hurtful and mean spirited. You f***king m********ker b****red!”

“I am a little person and while I don’t enjoy being poked it doesn’t make me dangerous. I also DO NOT smell like urine! F***ker!”

Well hell and meatball sandwiches! Let a man talk before givin’ him a hot poker suppository. Mel, the dwarf in question, and me’s good buddies for a long time. He IS dangerous if ya’ poke him due to a traumatizing childhood incident involving a vibrating bed and a fist full of ballpoint pens. As far as the urine smell well he works in the PETTING ZOO… whata’ think he’s gonna’ smell like? Daises and cream? The man’s three and a half feet tall which just so happens to be the same height as a goat’s rectum, so cut him some slack. I hear Mary Kay is still testing cosmetics on bunnies, why don’t you go bother them and leave Mel alone. Me and Mel’s gonna’ get a fifth of Jim Bean then hide under the “Tilt-a-Whirl” and watch the girls skirts go up.

Carnies Vs. Circus Freaks

2005-01-19T10:14:00.000-07:00

Notin’ cheeses off a carnie more than bein’ associated with onion headed circus freaks. There’re several fundamental differences between the fair minded vendors of games of chance and fairly priced carnival rides than the human cesspool that is circies.
Example:

Hygiene; a carnie will wipe after every bowel movement as carnies understand that the smell of clinging terds will drive away the rubes. Now take a big whiff of the guy who sells the circus peanuts. Yep, he’s not just selling peanuts, he’s gottem’ skidded on the inside seat of his drawers.
White Slavery; J & B Entertainment Lmt. Inc., who own the Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny, with which who I am currently employed, pays a fair wage for a fair days work and all Gyros we can eat. Circuses continually abduct Russian immigrants and French Canadians and force them into slave labor as acrobats and monkey wranglers.
Clowns; though B.B.C.E. & H have one clown, Bodo Diddles, who is an even tempered and SOBER clown who genuinely enjoys entertaining. Circus clowns eat children.
Bears that ride bicycles; that’s just not right.

Thars’ a few of the things to keep in mind the next time you’re at “The Tub o’ Fun” and you ask the carnie what it’s like to work for the circus. It’ll save ya’ the pain of a rapid fire carnie slappin’.

Carnie FAQ (F#%king Annoying Questions)

2005-01-18T21:21:00.000-07:00

As a 20 year carnie veteran you hear a lot of stupid things come outta' peoples mouths and some times a lot of wet chunky stuff coming outta' those mouths too, but that's a story for another time. Right now I'ma dealin' with the dumb crap peoples always askin' me about working in a carnival, so jus maybe ya'll just shut-it and ask mes some good questions like "Do you take hundred dollar bills?"

Is this game fixed? Now ma' favorite answer is "Naw, if you look over here you can see his testacies!", but that don't work to well with the ladies.
Is this ride safe? This is an easy one, I jus' give them a big gap filled smile and says "Now ya' think they'd put me in charge of a $50,000 Tilt-a-Whirl if it wasn't safe? You should be worried if they had a NASA technician to operate this."
Is it sanitary to make cotton candy like that? It's fluffed sugar with food coloring! Whata' you want from me?! Surgical gloves and a diving helmet! I'm wearing the stupid hairnet already!
Is the dwarf running the petting zoo safe? As long as you don't poke him.
How'd you loose so many teeth? Children answer: Eating too many sweets and not doing my homework. Rowdy teenager answer: Rough sex with yer mom. Adult answer: Arn't you a little old to be askin' me stupid questions?
Are you sure this is an official Budweiser mirror? You won it playing "Wack 'em Cats", whatta' you think.
Uhg, are you the one who smells like urine? Oh, dear God no, that's the dwarf.

Well thars lots more than that, but writing this list is making me depressed and sober.