Clowns and coping with clowns

Some nights I literally cry for a few moments before composing myself in order to fall asleep — cry over the evil and stupidity of our so-called national government administration and the unnecessary harm, suffering, and mass murders caused to our world each day by such evil and stupid men (and their few women collaborators). Other nights, instead I sigh and chuckle quietly to myself, darkly sardonically, over the unbelievable ignorance and foolishness also involved in the same evil mess of this national and planetary catastrophe. A world “governed” by an evil and insane clown posse. A fumblingly stupid posse of drunken clowns — evil, insane, half-wit clowns. Literally. Think about it.

It’s as if a large van-load of such clowns had arrived to maraud your neighborhood. A large car-load of mentally deficient doofuses, dressed in clown costumes, face-paint, and fright-wigs and each armed with submachine guns, hand-grenades, cans of gasoline, sticks of dynamite, and flame-throwers. The entire posse has rolled up drinking and already way-past drunk from some toxic home-brew that has rendered them half-blind and just barely able to stand upright but has also given them hyper-ramped-up energy to rush around bumbling and shouting slurred half-wit insults once they’ve spilled staggering out of the van. Each clown smashed-out crazy drunk on a toxic booze that rips the lid off an already seething psychotic anger, rendering them all ragingly angry and half-blind.

Here they all come trotting goofily down your street, but as they start shooting aimlessly and blow-torching the nearest cars parked on the curbs of your block, they have also already managed in a couple of cases to set each other’s fright-wigs on fire. And three or four of them have even managed accidentally to shoot themselves in the foot with their own Kalishnakov assault rifles. The first one to pull a pin from a grenade fumbles and drops the handy little pineapple bomb. It rolls under their own van and blows it to smithereens—stolen billions in cash now flying and fluttering everywhere, raining down bills now as thick confetti clouds of thousand-dollar green trash-leaves, massive flakes of still-glowing hot ashes.

But the clowns are still staggering and rushing around, shooting into windows, trying to kick-in doors, and pissing and shitting themselves as they trip and bump into each other. As they fall and get up and stagger around they are still trying to turkey-trot down the block. They’ve set three neighborhood dogs on fire now with their blow-torches and have scattered a cat with their machine-guns while simultaneously killing five of their own posse with the same burst of hot bullets. Two other dogs from the block, a pit bull and a chihuahua, are now taking down one of the nearest clowns, they’ve bitten off one of his hands making him drop his can of gasoline which is gushing a stream of liquid fast-flowing toward where a car is in flames.

This is what I mean by the kind of scene conducive to sardonic humor—if you think this sort of thing is the least bit funny. It’s our street, our block of homes. It’s our government administrator-clown posse. Their dented-up official-use-only government van has just pulled up and stopped at our corner. Could it be any worse?

Every hour it gets worse. This was the stay-at home van-load of insane clowns. Another load of these same armed and drunken half-wit clowns has flown and landed overseas and tumbled out onto the streets of a capital city of our frienemies.

Good luck y’all and goodnight.

This is the nightmare imagery and narrative captured by the evening news each and every evening. I can only bear to watch and listen in snippets every few days. To steady my nerves after such news programing on those nights when I do struggle to watch a minute of the ongoing real-life horror show, I then switch over to youtube and watch some old Hallmark made-for-TV rom-com chick flick. It works well enough. I become warmly drowzy as it draws to an end and I fall asleep like a baby.

And how are you coping?

 

 

 

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