There comes a point where you're barrelling down the freeway at speeds which are completely in excess of the local speed limit; when you've got half the counties law enforcement funnelled up behind you; when the only opposing choices you have open to you are to either drive the car or shoot the gun; when actually what you end up doing is driving the car AND shooting the gun; when the hostage has stopped screaming and is now just sobbing in thick bubbling snotty terror. There comes a point, when all you can do is look slowly around you and think. I've seen this before. In a film. Starring Bruce Willis.

God. I love Thursdays.

Shopping List
broccoli
organic carrots
potatos - big bag
minced meat
steaks
washing powder
shower gel
toothpaste
Hydrochloric acid
Barq's Rootbeer (12-pack)

If you're a special evil clown, then you'll always lose the odd pom-pom. From the viewpoint of the victim, they're usually the only things their desparate scrabbling hands can grab onto during that final kill. That's fine. Basic Evil Clown teaching says that pom-poms are a tax deductable consumable. I've known evil clowns who weren't satisfied on a night until at least one victim had managed to hold onto at least one blood soaked wool ball.

For me, it's different. I hate sewing the damn things back on, and I hate it when they come off. For years I tried nylon thread, but that never worked, and for a while I've been tipping the pom-pom threads with poisoned needles. This works to a degree, but there's always somebody who'll ignore the pain in order that they collect that extra bit of "evidence".

Who knows. I really hate it when the pom-poms come off, and I'm getting to that point where I'll try anything. If anybody has any ideas, could they please email them to the usual address.

Last night, I was talking to Mildred, and she told me some secrets about the raccoons, and the neighbours, about the whispering sound of a cheesewire, and the dull thud of a marble rolling pin, and I got to think about how I'm still here in Suburbia, and although the assignments are picking up, how I'm lonely for some real conversation.

I put Mildred back into her box then, gave it a decent burial, and then I drove a number of miles out to where the city stops and the dry countryside begins, and I found a phone, and I called Rachel.

Her voice, when she answered sounded tired, scratched by age, and death, and maybe tainted by the crackle of long distance converstation, and I dropped my coins into the slot, but I found I had nothing to say, that I could not make myself speak.

"I know people." she said, after a minute of silence, and then she hung up on me.

Later, I dug Mildred up again, and I held her in my hands, and even though she forgave me, she told me that I should only see Rachel one more time, and I knew what I must do.

ITChick asks ...
My brother might be interested in becoming an evil clown. How does one get into Evil Clown School?

Most people think that it is enough to be simply "Evil" to start training as an evil clown. This is not the case. To become an evil clown, first one must BE a clown. Tell your brother to start at the bottom. Take some juggling classes, borrow a book from the library on Balloon Animals, practice the culinary art of pie making.

ITChick (As if that's your real name). If your brother is serious about this, he must start at the bottom of the ladder. The Brothers are aware of all the major clown courses, and if your brother has aptitude, then he will be approached, and then tested.

Remember, you can put the monster into mime, but you'll never get the mime into monster.

Finally, I have a gmail account. I feel so 7334. If you want to send me email, then write to special.clown@gmail.com. I would prefer it if you also told me where you lived, and what the security code for your alarm system is. (Only Joking - Just send me an email heh.)

They found me. Somebody told somebody something, and that person told someone else. But they found me, and I had to run.
For the last four months, I've been hiding out in Minnosota (Don't ask), Irene's been all over the media (Oprah - OhMyGod - And Why), and I've been shacked up in this suburban nightmare with nothing but the cats and Mildred's decomposing head to keep me company. I'm guessing that conversations I have with Mildred are more exciting than the ones Irene has with whatever media Whores she's currently selling her soul to.
It's taken this amount of time, but I'm finally back on the net, and finally ready to pick up where I left off with the Academy.
I don't know if this has anything to do with Rachel, but I really want to talk to her.
First, I need to get back to work. Night is approaching, and I have a knife with a wicked grin and a bad, bad, bad temper.

You know. I'd Kill for a Gmail account.
Really. I would.