Clown Power!

How to kick the KKK's flabby old ass: with LAUGHTER!

Upon my early morning coffee/Internet perusal hour, I happened upon this news story from '07. A collection of Sad and Ignorant Outcasts (aka the KKK) tried to organize a hate rally in downtown Knoxville, TN. A group of people dressed like clowns arrived on the scene, and gave them a hilarious run for their money! I salute them, both for their brave unwillingness to allow such outdated dogma to spew, and for their use of the power of love and laughter to overcome!
(I cut & pasted this report directly from the Neatorama site - full credit and link are at the end of this post)



Unfortunately for [VNN] the 100th ARA (Anti Racist Action) clown block came and handed them their asses by making them appear like the asses they were.


Alex Linder, the founder of VNN and the lead organizer of the rally, kicked off events by rushing the clowns in a fit of rage, and was promptly arrested by 4 Knoxville police officers who dropped him to the ground when he resisted and dragged him off past the red shiny shoes of the clowns. http://www.volunteertv.com/home/headlines/7704982.html


“White Power!” the Nazi’s shouted, “White Flour?” the clowns yelled back running in circles throwing flour in the air and raising separate letters which spelt “White Flour”.


“White Power!” the Nazi’s angrily shouted once more, “White flowers?” the clowns cheers and threw white flowers in the air and danced about merrily.


“White Power!” the Nazi’s tried once again in a doomed and somewhat funny attempt to clarify their message, “ohhhhhh!” the clowns yelled “Tight Shower!” and held a solar shower in the air and all tried to crowd under to get clean as per the Klan’s directions.


At this point several of the Nazi’s and Klan members began clutching their hearts as if they were about to have a heart attack. Their beady eyes bulged, and the veins in their tiny narrow foreheads beat in rage. One last time they screamed “White Power!”


The clown women thought they finally understood what the Klan was trying to say. “Ohhhhh…” the women clowns said. “Now we understand…”, “WIFE POWER!” they lifted the letters up in the air, grabbed the nearest male clowns and lifted them in their arms and ran about merrily chanting “WIFE POWER! WIFE POWER! WIFE POWER!”



And in parting, I quote freely from Mark Twain, whose unfinished book, 'The Mysterious Stranger', summed it up perfectly, over one hundred years ago:



"Will a day come when the race will detect the funniness of these juvenilities and laugh at them--and by laughing at them destroy them?
"For your race, in its poverty, has unquestionably one really effective weapon--laughter. Power, Money, Persuasion, Supplication, Persecution--these can lift at a colossal humbug,--push it a little-- crowd it a little--weaken it a little, century by century: but only Laughter can blow it to rags and atoms at a blast.
Against the assault of Laughter nothing can stand."
-Mark Twain, 'The Mysterious Stranger'


http://www.neatorama.com/2007/09/03/clowns-kicked-kkk-asses/

Oh, a wise guy, eh?

Happy April Fools' Day! 

I'm in utter bliss, watching The Three Stooges marathon on AMC channel. Whoop whoop whooooo whooo whoo woooooo!

Merry Christmas to All, and to All, a Fruitcake!

I’m bordering on hysteria when I think about admitting my shameful secret. It’s something that could potentially render me a laughingstock among my peers and blogreaders alike, but I believe in confession being good and cleansing for the soul, so here goes:

I loves me a fruitcake.

I’m talking about the actual food, not the derogatory English slang for a person of questionable mental capacity, though after you read this, you may harbor serious doubts about mine.

But here’s how it all happened.

Poopy and I were grocery shopping last week and happened upon a rather large basketful of colorful fruitcakes in the store aisle, making a few disparaging remarks and jokes as we sauntered past the display. We pride ourselves in being a very stalwart couple where trying new foodstuffs is concerned, and he toyed with the idea of actually purchasing one. 


Poopy’s far more adventurous than me, having tried actual haggis at a Scottish festival here a few years ago, plus he actually likes liver and onions (retch!), which, along with other nauseating organ meats, are verboten in the house, so for him to try a fruitcake was, well, a piece of cake.

After about a minute or so of bantering back and forth of “Really? You wanna try it, too?” we settled on a colorful variety made in Georgia by the Claxton Fruitcake Company (World famous since 1910 it said on the label, which was all the convincing I needed). I picked it up and was awestruck at its weight – it seemed heavy enough to wield as a cudgel. 

(Can you imagine the police report? “Victim was bludgeoned to death by a holiday cake.”)

As everyone knows, there are a lot of jokes about fruitcakes, the most well-known claiming there being only one on earth which makes its way around to each and every home, where the last recipient sends it off (or “re-gifting” as it was called on Seinfeld) to the next unwitting recipient. In all actuality, it has honorable beginnings, being a sort of autumn ceremonial cake replete with all the fruits of the harvest that was stored and eaten during the winter. And the Victorians? Well, they were enamored of their fruitcakes!

Yet in spite of its humble origins, The Hubby and I were outright horrified at the caloric-overload of the thing. Good common sense told us to run like hell, but like the denseness of a black hole pulling in objects around it, we were drawn back into its orbit. So in spite of the knowledge that close to four hundred carb-laden calories per slice (enough to sustain a small family in any third world country!) were at stake to indulge in this sinful creation, we stuck with our decision to try it.

Surely, I thought on the drive home, it will induce diabetes at the first bite, but we nonetheless tossed caution to the wind and purchased the stout log.

Now, let it be known that this was the first one I have ever paid to own. I vaguely recall many decades ago sampling a single slice at a holiday party and being utterly repulsed by it (think of the scene in the movie BIG when Tom Hanks spits out the caviar into his napkin and you get an idea of how I felt at the time about my mouthful of fruitcake), but buying one? Never. At least never, up till that day last week.

It languished on the counter but a few days before I said to The Hubby one night after dinner, “Well, are you up for a small slice?” He was game and thus our gastronomical adventure was about to begin.

Carefully slicing off a few thin chunks, I watched as they fell over off the loaf in slow-motion, all the butter and grease and fruity goo holding each and every diabolical crumb together before it hit the plate with a soft ploop sound. I picked up a sticky slice and examined it closely: lots of unidentifiable fruit pieces crammed in there, jostled up against one another, and so very many hunks of nuttage as well. There were many different colors, too, including what can only be described as nuclear green and clown blue. I had to wonder, where in the world do green maraschino cherries grow? Like George Carlin before me speculating where they kept the blue food, I pondered the same thing of the otherworldly-tinged Whatever Berry I was struggling to identify. I tentatively bit into the slice and chewed cautiously. Its overall consistency was more Gummi Bear than fresh fruit, but still not altogether unpleasant to masticate. 

                                              Let the Bacchanalia begin!

However, the overall sweetness of the concoction was tooth-achey in every way. My salivary glands squirted in frenzied overtime, trying to break down the sugary bolus as best they could before I could swallow it down the ol’ gullet.

I’m of the mind that if something this sweet is good, why not make it even better by adding some nice fine booze to it (like Kahlua over ice cream, y’know?). And that I voiced to dear Hubby O’ Mine, who piped in with “Let’s douse it with some Sailor Jerry’s rum.”

                                            Sodden drunk cakey goodness!

                                          

Well hey, no need to twist my little freckled arm.  A good few jiggers of the dark spiced rum later, and we found ourselves gobbling down several more thick slabs of the sodden cake until, suddenly, there was a definite and very heavy sickness to our stomachs. Ever eat too much Halloween candy and then get that sugar overload shock to your system? Yeah, well, that’s what it felt like. Should’ve quit while we were ahead (I’ll stoically insert a self-deprecating remark about ‘experience coming five seconds after you need it’ and be done with it) but it was all in the name of science. Or culinary adventure… eh, I dunno.

But I’ll tell you, I’m darn proud that I overcame the hurdle of such a maligned societal victual, and freely admit that, yes, I liked it. The loaf disappeared rather quickly over the course of a few short days. And I find myself suddenly craving it now. Dear God, please help me…

However. The same sentiment will never be said of liver and onions, so don’t get your hopes up, Poopy.

"You better watch out..."

You better not try

To put horns on Kitty's head

I'm telling you why:

She'll come and kill you while you sleep for making her suffer such humiliation at the cost of your cheap laughs.

You've been warned.

(A big shout-out to LOL "I Can Haz Cheezburger" for this image)

http://icanhascheezburger.com/