Astronaut Clown

Between the inky depths of deep space and the outermost bounds of human achievement, you'll find Astronaut Clown!

Astronaut Clown has been working relentlessly for the past seven months, training in the underwater tank and spinning in the endurance centrifuge to build his body up to withstand the rigors of the final unexplored frontier -- transatmospheric travel!

Astronaut Clown has double masters degrees from Harvard in engineering and botany -- plus equivalency accreditation from Tampa Bay Clown College -- all towards his paramount goal of being the first clown in space. He wakes up each morning and applies his creepy greasepaint mask and rainbow wig before eating a high-protein gruel (designed to bolster his physical might and immune system), and then strikes off to the gymnasium for two hours of intensive cardiovascular and strength training. His day rounds out in the sophisticated aeronautical laboratory, wherein he prepares the raw materials for his zero-gravity experiments!

Astronaut Clown: I'm almost ready -- no, the world is almost ready! Once I prove my hypothesis on the sustained velocity of disk-shaped objects in the vacuum of space, I'll publish my findings in the "Journal Nature" and be revered by my peers! Scientists have argued since the dawn of the Space Race that you could not accurately throw a banana cream pie in space, but I'll prove them all wrong. All my findings were for naught until that fateful night I cracked the Euclidean Graham Cracker Crust Ratio and perfected the ultimate throwing pie!

Astronaut Clown: As the Romans would say, ecce dessert! All that's left is to perfect the seltzer-bottle based propulsion method, and I will have revolutionized the very nature of space travel, throwing all conventional wisdom to the wind! Wernher Von Braun... NASA... the Soviets -- all infants crawling around in the blocks of innovation that I, alone, handily stack to create unparalleled achievement. Just the work of the past three months alone is enough to rewrite the most advanced texts on the matter!

Astronaut Clown: Repurposing all this old Russian seltzer technology has vaulted my plans ahead by at least six months -- I'm far ahead of the Japanese and Chinese, and the Americans can't possibly catch up now. Everything I do, I do for the good of mankind -- my discoveries will make me a hero in eyes of little boys and girls everywhere, who'll want nothing more than to follow in my oversized red footsteps and become harlequin-scientist-pioneers themselves!

Oscar®-nominated actor David Strathairn: Um, Astronaut Clown, I know you're busy, but can I disturb you for a moment?

Astronaut Clown: Why, it's Oscar®-nominated actor David Strathairn! You ooze credibility!

O®NADS: It's true, I do.

Astronaut Clown: Of course I have the time for you! What's up?

O®NADS: I notice what you've been doing, and I wanted to take the time to tell you that the world doesn't give one single fuck about any of it.

Astronaut Clown: What?

O®NADS: You've been locked up in this building for so long, the world has passed you by. You could wrap all this bullshit up in an eggroll and ride it in the Breeders' Cup, and no one would care.

Astronaut Clown: You're hurting my feelings! This isn't just a sad clown face, it's real!

O®NADS: Open your eyes, you goofy bastard! That actor guy died of sleeping pills or some shit last week, and that fucking mattered!

Astronaut Clown: La-la-la-la-la-la... I can't hear you...

O®NADS: And what about that loopy broad who sings all those shitty songs? She's losing it too!

Astronaut Clown: I... I see the truth of it now -- my entire existence is meaningless. I've been rendered moot.

O®NADS: It's time to throw this shit away and grow up.

Astronaut Clown: I better turn on the TV, I've got a lot of catching up to do. Thanks, David Strathairn, for setting me straight.

O®NADS: You also might want to "The Bourne Supremacy" on your Netflix, too, while you're at it. And, "Good Night, and Good Luck."

Astronaut Clown: Oooh, look! Pictures of cats with poorly-phrased, grammatically-incorrect captions written over top in blocky fonts! I think love this new world, slavishly and without question!

Dulcet tones

In honor of "Rambo", opening this weekend...

The Return... of Dr. Oetker!

Since me and the shmwife and I are preparing for a big move, we're going through the annals, cleaning up ten metric tonnes of shit. In going through the cupboards, I come across a long lost prize -- Dr. Oetker's Puding, a birthday treat from Erik Seims and Kyria Abrahams two years ago. Dr. Oetker's mirakle muz aromali püding has sat in our cabinet ever since, untouched by human or rodent hands... until tonight!

I boiled the water, added the powder, and chilled the yellowy goo, all in hopes of writing a reasonable review of this wonderful gift. Now, after sampling a teaspoon-sized portion of said püding, I have to say it tastes yellowy, and strongly of bananas. Picture what it would be like if tapioca püding tasted like obnoxious bananas -- and there you have the pride of Dr. Oetker's dark pantry.

I, for one, cannot wait to sample the official Dr. Oetker-brand türkey-flavored butterscotch earwig püding. Mmmm! Sign me up for seconds! Is that a note of tarnished nickels I detect?

Imagine, if you will...

You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the sign post up ahead, your next stop... The Twilight Zone!


Imagine, if you will, a feathered creature blessed not only with webbed feet and a bill, but also a pair of twin preposterous protuberances -- human ears -- sprouting from each side of said creature's head. If you ever happen meet such a duck, be careful what you say, because you might just be tossing handfuls of white bread at fowl floating on a pond located directly in the town square of... the Twilight Zone.


Two women talking at lunch:

Katie: So I just don't know if he likes me! I mean, we were out for four hours, and we had a great conversation, and he even kissed my neck at one point, but he NEVER. MADE. EYE. CONTACT. Not once.

Daphne: That's your exit strategy right there. No eye contact means he's either evasive, bored... or ten minutes away from guest-starring on "To Catch a Predator."

Katie: I KNOW! Really, I do, but he's just so cute. I mean, he told me all about this long relationship he had back in the late ’90s and all, and he, like, actually WEPT once! A single tear! I mean, I almost... almost melted. It was SOOO charming.

Daphne: Now you're just being a damn fool. 'Mr. Weepycharms' must have Asperger's or something, because there's no way someone sane and living on planet Notfuckingcrazy does NOT manage to accidentally once look you in the pupils.

Katie: Right, my brain is telling me that, but he was dressed so well! And he chose the wine, like, a Mouton-Rothschild or something. He is so perfect! I wish he made eye contact!

Daphne: You're not seriously thinking of giving him another chance? I see it -- that look you have! You're going to give him another go, aren't you?

Katie: Have you EVER in your LIFE had a man know exactly where to kiss you on that spot on your neck?

Daphne: Sure, and they do more than follow it up with a handshake. What part of NO EYE CONTACT isn't getting through?

Katie: It's too tempting to not try again.


*QUACK!*

Katie and Daphne: [In unison] LISTENING DUCK!

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: Boy, what an incredible coincidence, Listening Duck! We were just talking about something very important.

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Daphne: Listening Duck, she wants to give some guy she went on a date with a second chance after he wasn't able to look her in the eyes, once, the whole time. Please tell her she's crazy.

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: But Listening Duck, it's not like that -- hear me out! He was such a gentleman, like, the old-fashioned kind. I really respond to that. It wasn't a pick-up game or anything! He just...

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Daphne: See? He sides with me.

Katie: That's not what he said!

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: See? He agrees with me.

Daphne: You think he's speaking duck-Spanish? He said I'm right.

Katie: That's such bullshit. You know, you're a bitch.

Daphne: Ek... scuse...me?

Katie: You're fucking bitter because you haven't gotten laid in, like, five months.

Daphne: This is where you want to devolve to? You fucking flaky little nimrod? Who listens to your tired-ass phone whimpering after some guy doesn't call your flat ass back after you sleep with him on the first date? Who always picks up...

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: You know, fuck you, and fuck Listening Duck!

Daphne: Fuck me? Well, how do you like fucking this? [pulls out a gun from her purse and fires at Katie, knocking her over in her seat]

Katie: *Gurgle*... *murgle*... *bluhhhh*... [expires]

Daphne: Oh my god, Katie! What have I done! [kills self with one gunshot to the head]

Listening Duck: QUACK!


Audible Turtles: Yeah, quack, quack quack. No ever gives a fuck about what the turtles have to say -- that fucking duck is all anyone cares about! I hear he's deaf anyway! Oh the irony!


The cruel irony of the situation is that the duck was, in fact, deaf. The ears were nothing more than vestigial appendages, thus giving new life to that old axiom, 'Do not try to intrigue a Listening Duck in matters where one is better off not being.' That's not something you'll find in any waterfowl field manual or terrapin conventional wisdom, so always lunch carefully when you find yourself pondside in... the Twilight Zone!