Today, the Russians launched a clown into space. He’s the first space clown, ever. The clown paid $35 million to go into space, where he intends to publicize the world’s dwindling supply of clean water.
From a news perspective, this story is just full of hooks. First clown in space. Paid $35 million dollars. Millionaire clown. Buying your way into space.
It’s just—well, the clean water thing. It’s one hook too many. His clean water awareness mission is entirely buried by the fact that he’s the first millionaire clown to buy his way to the international space station. He’s going to be a sad clown. Swimming in polluted water.
I can’t tell you how many stories I’ve read that seemed to me to be a bunch of quirky ideas thrown together, as if the writer was hoping one would really stick. I can’t tell you how many times those stories have been MY stories.
Don’t do it, everybody. Don’t bury the point with your ideas. They’ll tempt you. They do that.
(Prize for the first commenter to identify the image above. And not just who it is. Why it is appropriate, too.)
Not to be outdone I suggested we all strip and rub one anothers’ bodies with some very special oil I happened to have. My wife immediately muttered ‘sacrilege’, and abruptly turned away from me for the rest of the evening. Partly because of her attitude and my own position in all this I started looking around at the other women. There wasn’t really much choice. I chose about the youngest, a girl who still had the air of highschool around her. I really wasn’t turned on by her, however, she seemed to respond amazingly quickly in the candlelit room to my hands which at first I only dared put through her long dark hair. I whispered that we should go into another room. But as we were sidling out of the door, my wife, who lay naked on the altar, incense it seemed wafting from her body, called out ‘if you want to do anything do it here only don’t bug my trip.’ I had the feeling that other than the potions Nightripper had handed out he had also passed around something else. The scene resembled a Bosch vision of hell. Some women were staring, some were unusually happy, some were sick, others were screaming, and some said the walls were moving. These days if one escapes being hijacked in an airplane, mugged in the street, or sniped at by a man gone berserk, one apparently still runs the risk of getting accidentally zonked by the hors d’oeuvres at a friendly neighbourhood cocktail party. As soon as I thought this I began hallucinating, and ultimately freaked out, overturning the altar, calling Nightripper my motherfucking father. Apparently everyone soon left, except the girl, who my wife asked to stay, hoping between them they could bring me through. I remember there was a point when I didn’t want to come down, but remain on an edge that appeared to touch upon a very thin line between life and death, and such power! I felt I was capable of anything, by merely putting my hand out things would fall or rise. I was Satan with God as my servant.
