Clown college

The master is gone now. It is peaceful. Soon the master will return, and he will come for me, next.

I have watched three others be taken out of the master's larder -- removed to his culling chamber. The master has a strong dislike of clowns. He says we frighten him, with our harlequin smiles, our greasepaint masks, and our garish frockwear. The master is always very angry whenever he returns.

Does the master get aroused? There always seems to be a beaded sweat upon his brow, accompanied by the concentrated musk of the procreative act, when the master comes do to his black acts. Acts so horrible... my mind can only see tufts of rainbow hair shredded about; streams of seltzer dappled with ruddy speckles; large, red shoes charred and blistered... I can barely stand to entertain the horrible sights.

The master always returns at sunset, and he carries the same two implements with him each night: a large serrated offset-knife and a bottle of worcestershire sauce.

He also wears a butcher's apron... and nothing else, save a pair of espadrilles.

I think I hear his footfalls now... the dread sound of the master. There's only me left... me and my pale, white, supple clownflesh, always favored by the discerning palette. I fear that soon, my marrow will be supped upon, my connective tissue snapped between molars, my chewy fats will be slurped up between oily, engorged lips. I am only as good as a smoldering repast, to be eaten, savored, and excreted -- noisily. I hear my doom, now:

Clown! Oh clown! Poppy is home from work and he's hungry!

The mighty wood is upon me, clown... I need to be satiated before I blog about "Knight Rider" and "A.L.F."

Prepare to be cleansed by fire -- and absorbed by... my colon.