Hulk, Freddy Kruger, & Me

Hi World. 


Many of you have seen my latest glamour shot- the Freddy Kruger neck? Which by the way one can't get unless one "builds to that."  God graced me with having perfect skin in my teenage years and most of my 20's... when I hit 32 years old, I no longer had good skin and instead I looked like a bad after-school movie on teenage angst. 
I decided about a week ago that I'd try ProActive AGAIN and this time I wouldn't puss out and not do it "by the book." (unlike previous attempts when I decided that I was too awesome for steps 2 & 4) Don't worry, this blog isn't about acne. 


So...For the last week I've been "by the book" on the ProActive treatment as well as being "by the book" with every aspect of my life currently. I've been running myself ragged with multiple gigs on the same day, plus running my own booth at various trade shows across the BIG FAT state of Texas. I sold my prized drum kit in order to start this business and made a lot of sacrifices to ensure that I would be able to not only help myself but help out my family too. THAT is/was a mistake...the helping of my ungrateful ass family.  


These bucktoothed slobbering "simple country folk" of rural Texas have lost their charm to me.(this isn't about my family) Once upon a time when I lived in Los Angeles, I would've given my entire torso area, plus tax, as a gift to the gods in order be in the presence of "simple folk from Ruraltown USA." 


Now, I understand why all "virus outbreak" movies happen in rural towns in Texas because they are all one dog bite away from being post-apocalyptic mouth-breathing groaners. All of them. You want a stereotype, there, I just gave you one and I f*cking mean every word of it. 


I saw a lady that looked EXACTLY, NO LISTEN TO ME, EXACTLY LIKE A BULLFROG WALKING UPRIGHT. WHAT DNA STRAND SLOUGHED OFF OF INTO THE OUTHOUSE TO CREATE THAT?! anyway... back to my story... 


*By the way, when I say RURAL, I'm not talking about suburbs here people... I'm talking about places where the sign says, "Quinlan 6 miles, Fate 7 miles(that shit is real) and You are currently in UNKNOWN FM DISTRICT 775." I was in the last one on that list. *


Why was I there? There are these things here in Texas called "Trade Days," and you pay a price to rent an area of sacred ass Indian burial ground land (complete with Skinwalkers) to sell your goods to the surrounding villages of mouth-breathing groaners. Well, I can't be sure about the sacred Indian burial ground part but I think I'm onto something with that. Anyhow...


 Some days you make good money and other days you make rashes on your neck. A quote was said by L.Kimes recently on one of these journeys, "If I hear one more southern accent I'm going to pop someone in the testicles." I should mention that I thought I was doing everyone a favor by saying "Why don't you guys run the booth this weekend, I've got other gigs and can't be there until later in the evening..." This was no favor on my part. 


I might have lost Kime's friendship and respect over this "favor." My brother, Chancho, who tries his best to irritate everyone around him as much as possible (because it's how he has survived for 30 years...deep psychology there, folks) is along for one of these journeys into the abyss of DUMBF*CK County Fair Trade Days. I dropped off my brother and L. Kimes off at this rented space which faced the sun and had a backdrop of galvanized steel... perfect for cooking a rotisserie pork loin or your head. 


 Here's where it gets real f*cking funny... 


I had another gig going on simultaneously and you know what it was? Give up? 


I had to be(brace yourself)... A Mime...at a grocery store. A MIME. AT. A. GROCERY. STORE.  And you know what else? The pay was greater for 2 hours than if I worked half a week doing 10 shows @ 3hrs each show on THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH. How in the hell does that happen? Well... it did. I paid for my good fortune with a 3rd degree chemical burn on my neck thus giving me that Freddy Kruger look that is so sought after in Cosplay circles...which I am not into by the way for the record. Apparently you can't wear ProActive in the sun with grease paint a'top of it or you create a melty molotov cocktail. 


Moving along...After mimin' it up at the Central Market for overly entitled rich assholes who buy 12 dollar blueberry fucking muffins, I checked my phone and there waiting on the lock screen was 7 texts from my peeps manning the booth.  


Text: 
"We sold a puppet to the corn guy next to us. That is it." 


"Do you think there is any way we can get our rental money back on this?" 


"I think we need to leave." 


"I just found out the other trade day is 1 mile from here and is packed with people." 


"No more vendors are here. It's just us in an abandoned parking lot." 


"Let us know when you are close by." 


"We hurt real bad." 


I get into my car, drive 50 plus miles to retrieve my product and my people when I get to the frontage road I can clearly see their sunburn faces from 200ft away. What happened the rest of that day can only be explained as... well... they were angry, burnt, and probably severely dehydrated... I however, had plucked chicken neck and when I turned my head to specifically the right, my neck would bleed. I found this out the hard way, in public, at the QuikTrip down the street from my house. The guy who works there that I named DeadBabyJoe asked me if I was okay? I call him DeadBabyJoe because he was going to have a baby and I went to Ringling, etc.. when I came back from tour I said, "How is that baby of yours!" He replied, "it died a year ago today." I said, "Oh my God! I'm so so so so sorry!!! How is your wife doing?" He said, "She divorced me after the baby died." Well, fuck. 


The next day I try to make metaphorical lemonade out of the rotten lemons of the previous day's woe. I schedule another booth at a trade expo way out in Hunt County. In order to get a good space you have to be there by 7:00am. It's about 60 miles away so that means I have to get as soon as I lay down- the night before. (don't worry this gets better) 


My brother is one of those people that you've never met before because he's fucking insane. He gives no information when you need information, he will stare at you when you ask something in an emergency setting and when you want him to shut his face he will give you a fucking play-by-play of his stupid buttfucking Star Trek online game. He's fucking nuts...here's how I know he is... because if he read this rant he would feign laughter and stomp his feet in toddler amusement over how he was talked about negatively... it's fun for him to be hated.


 Riding in a car with my brother is the worst, it's probably worse than camping out in the Vietkhang without a rape whistle, knife, or a mosquito net... but you know what sucks even more? Working alongside my brother while he's trying to "shoot the shit" with the buttfucking FROG PEOPLE! 
It's like they all have a secret handshake, a codebook for retards. They change their voice when they get around their "own kind" and go from being semi-coherant to grunting squawks. I had to listen to this kind of thing for 9 hours out in the hot hot hot sun...Here's a real sample..(I'll write this phonetically, sound-it-out people.)


"heyl mane dere I cun see yoo gut yer sum lil'ol'puhhpets. how much'n yood say dey g'fer." 


Give up?
Translation: "hell, man, there I can see you got your some little old puppets. how much 'n' you would say they go for." 


Guess what... any way you fucking hear that shit it's fucking wrong!


The guy who said this shit "had indian in him" because he had to tell us that... AS ALL THE WHITE TRASH PEOPLE HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT FUCKING HAVE INDIAN BLOOD IN THEM... they fucking don't.


 They are from the stock of humans that scooped up filth and put it in baskets to dam up the moats so the Crocs didn't feast upon the noble's horses. They are the people in scene from Monty Python's "Holy Grail" that say, "there's some lovely filth ov'here." Every time one of these white trash filth hoarders says they "got Indian in they blood," the baby Jesus cries.  I should mention that this asshole had a mullet with a long long long thin n' mealy french braid down his back. He told us he would sell us some more stock of puppets because...something something... couldn't understand... and then he said,


 "Cuz I cuhd run y'all out'tere wit wut I got but I 'n't gon' do dat y'know, but heyl I sail 'em ta yoo fer heyl bout two fitty tree fitty peece." 


Translation: "Because I could run you all out of here with what I got but I ain't going to to that you know, but hell, I sell them to you for hell, about two fifty three fifty piece." 


My fat ass brother understood this asshole and said, "Heyl, that is a pretty guhd priiiiiice." 


I know what my face was doing as if I was looking in a mirror. I could feel the muscles in my face dying. I had to watch this guy pitch me something and then mildly threaten me in order to get me to buy his stock at a wholesale price. I guess I was supposed to feel as though this was a favor? 


Aye, there's the rub. This Cigarbox White Trash Indian was doing me a "favor" in the same way I did a "favor" for L.Kimes and my brother the day before as they sizzled on Planet X selling puppets to NOBODY for 8 hours. 
Instant karma I suppose. They got sunburned, I got a chemical burn that transformed me into Freddy Kruger from the chin down.


The moral of this story is that I now understand why rent is higher in urban cities and it's not because it's supply/demand. You have to make it higher because GOD FORBID any of the FROGS and Cigar Store White Trash Indians came into the city to breed. Holy shit we can't let that happen. If you don't have a gun, go and get one because if these people in the surrounding "UNKNOWN FM 755 TERRITORIES" get wind of you "havin' things," they will slowly schlep their way to your house and talk their way into your front door and sell you broken shit at premium prices while threatening to "run you out of your own house." 


If you wanted to prank call the people who run this hell hole flea market I've decided to list their number at the bottom of this blog. Feel free to ask them philosophical questions, life advice, or any sort of deep inquiry you may have... I can promise you any response you get will be comedic gold. Mark my words, they will not hang up on you right away. They don't mentally process things that fast... you will get a solid 2 questions in before they start to "figurin' yoo is full uh shit." 
The guy that answers the phone has a 4.2 second delay when you ask him questions he DOES know the answer to... "How much is the rent for the space this weekend?" (count to 4) 
"Thirty Fi' buhhhks." 
So I can only imagine if you asked him something like, "What do you think the future of Nasa's involvement concerning finding life on other planets will include?"  


(Spontaneous Combustion Sounds...BOOM, Sizzle, Drip, Drip...Dial Tone) 


BucktoothedRetard Flea Market Guy THAT RIPPED ME OFF: 
469-569-0448

It's April 4th, Easter Sunday. I'm in Washington, D.C. I've been out of commission for about 7 weeks with a busted hip. I'm in the circus so it stands to reason that if you have a sub-standard hip then you can't really be awesome.

Life for me as of late has been something of a Tale of Torment. I sit on a train most of the day and when I'm not at the train I'm at physical therapy. When I'm not doing those two things I'm sleeping or sulking.

I have never had an injury that I couldn't "walk out." Until now. My day to day stuff is about as interesting as staring blankly at a brown wall and trying to see when it will become a new car. It isn't going to become a new car but at least you have something to think about? Bad analogy I know, but I'm sure you get it.

I jokingly tell people that I've lost my mind but this is really not a joke. I think I may have. I've had thoughts about stuff that most people wouldn't dare to think because they'd get a migraine. My favorite thing(not) is being asked repeatedly how my "foot is doing" because it's not my foot and I've already told the "story of the busted hip" to them 100 times or more. I'm going to start saying, "Oh my foot? Yeah it's being replaced with a horse hoof and that's why it's taking so long for me to get back in the show."

Bitterness may be oozing from the screen but I assure you that I'm way past being bitter. I'm now in the zone of tarnished foil in the mouth.

Below is a list of things I've done in the last 7 weeks:

1. Watched "Nacho Libre" about 200 times because it makes me feel good.

2. Watched the special features of "Iron Man," about the same amount of times as item #1.

3. Cleaning my room- all-the-time.

4. Wrote 4 songs that I ended up throwing in the 'Recycle Bin' so that I could rewrite them for fun.

5. Edited 2000 photographs that I'll never look at again because to do so would land me further in the pit of ultimate darkness.

6. Made desperate attempts at communicating with friends at all times of the day, every day. So much so that I'm pretty sure they are figuring out ways to block my number.

7. I've texted more than any human on planet earth.

8. I've watched every video on YouTube ever posted.

9. I've eaten everything that a person can eat without someone calling a talk show to report, "Hoarding Intervention."

10. I've thought about how to successfully make a hover board a la "Back to the Future." (pretty sure I've got a solid blueprint going on)

11. Reached levels of rage that I didn't know I had the emotional capacity to reach.

12. Performed home surgery on strange rashes I received due to crutches being my modus operandi.

13. Cut my hair with blunt kitchen scissors.

14. Created a "hit list" of people who piss me off on any given day- rated each one based on a system I created using a form of calculus.

15. Started writing this blog.

You know those people who become crazy conspiracy theorist? I know how they mutated into that mentality. They were injured and left in solitude on a circus train for 7 weeks. That's how.

Paranoia knows no bounds when you are left alone for too long.

I've started collecting rocks from the various train yards that's I've been stuck in. I do this because it's something to do.

I've started to notice different stain formations on the vestibule steps. I ponder what caused them and if they are toxic.

I've had the same conversations with the same people at least 2000 times and each time I can't wait to do it all over again... it's something to do.

I've noticed the hex-bolts that hold together the vestibule doors are chipped and probably on the next train run to the next city I'll be smoking when the doors will fall off and I'll fly away... fah' fah' away.

I've figured out how to make chocolate kettle corn out of Sweet n' Low, Mexican Cocoa and a microwave that doesn't work efficiently.

I've consistently been perplexed by how when I pour a glass of water from the tap I can't see through the glass. Water is clear right? This has led to my secondary theory of how I received the worst stomach virus of 2010 about 1 month prior to my busted hip injury. I've done numerous experiments on this water. I've let a glass of it sit overnight only to find upon waking a sediment of green and a beautiful jade powdery substance at the bottom of the glass.

These are the things I do. I'm busy aren't I?

Stay tuned for more magnifique' events.

-Elusive Injured Clown

Big Ideas in the Basement

My first blog on this site. I can hardly wait for nobody to read it. I'm hiding my identity for the sake of hiding my ass off. I have a successful blog on another site but I've often felt restricted by it because people know who I am, etc... Now you don't, so it's a free for all.

I don't have a whole lot to write about currently other than the rants I currently have held inside the captivity of my own mind.

Do you guys have the problem of parasitic people sucking the very essence of your goodness from the marrow of your grand spirit? I do.

Currently there is this fuckhead that comes into my world of work on Mondays. He found me via a newspaper article written about me and has latched on. I fear it could be a tapeworm situation. I might have to let it latch on, suck my soul, and then explode it violently in the nearest toilet. He's an older man, early 60's, and has unrequited dreams of being a composer/play write. He's decided to share his ideas with me against my will. I'm a sitting duck on Mondays. I am in entertainment, but on Monday's I'm helping some friends out with their business because they are currently out of the country. I have a handful of Monday's left to "help out with" so I'm going to throw a block party when it's all said n' done.

This old fucker rapes my ear. He is one of those people that is stuck in time. Sort of like Einstein's theory of relative time, being relative to motion... this guy has no motion so time has really crept by aging him ever so much and he's finding himself in 2009- complete with typewriter or as he brags "a word processor,"... and he plans on "making me a cassette of the show music." Fuckin' A.

In my life I've often felt that these outrageous characters were placed in my pathway so that I can have creative comedy fodder for my act. I think that is the best rational way of thinking about it anyway. If I thought the opposite, I'd shoot myself quickly in the face with a paintball gun. I'd definitely die from that, but it would sting really fucking bad until I died... just to get the whole death thing nailed into my soul so that I wouldn't choose to ever come back to Planet Chaos ever, ever, ever, ever again.

This old fucker has a muse. NO, I'm not it. In fact, he sort of tries to insult me in his complements. He resents me because deep down he knows I hate his old ass. I really have no genuine feelings of compassion for him at all.. or his ideas. Anyhow, his muse... yeah that's where I was... About a month ago he showed up ON A MONDAY with a picture of his "production partner" who looked a lot like a 22 year old Nicole Kidman. Not bad. But I realized via psychic ability and context clues(more the ladder) that this chick wasn't his production partner in real life. She was probably pacifying him with "acting" interested in his ideas and he's taken that shit to the Bank du ASSumption. I had the feeling that he was in love with her in a sick muse sort of way... like Selene Dion and her manager that she eventually married so that he wouldn't go Section 8 on her ass. This old fucker I'm having to contend with has a sort of "kill" thing in his eyes. I saw the KILL in him when he came in last week for my regular ear-raping appointment and told me that his "production partner" wasn't really on board anymore in his opinion. When I acted inquisitive about the reasons why he thought this, he said, "Welp, she's gone back to her old boyfriend so I'm (sigh) pretty much sure she's not fully invested in this project anymore... (sigh, grunt, sigh and psycho look)." I checked his ass with logic and said, "why would that make a difference if she had a boyfriend or not or whatever? Is the boyfriend controlling or something?" The he spoke the truth, "well... (grunt sigh) I was sort of (sigh, grunt sigh, grunt) in love with her I guess... but she didn't know that really but well, it's time for me to let her go... I gotta let her go... yep, gotta let her go..." Uh... You better let her the fuck go then! Shit!

It was like she was chained in the basement and he needed to just have some decency and unlatch the bolts that bound her? The fuck?

Anyhow... I shook that tater off and I forgot about his old ass for another week. Then here it is, Monday, and BAM! I was hiding my ass off in a low sitting chair trying to email some stuff out, etc... I had that sense that there was someone sharkin' me from the other side of the counter. All dorsal, all the time. So I looked up(my first mistake) and saw his old motherfuckin' ass and thought, "Oh, right, it's Monday... how I ignorantly forgot about my weekly ear rapist."

Out of his mouth came the following:

"Remember that script? The new one? She's a beauty and I've got it right here. Finished it at 3:30am and I'll make you a copy of it if you are interested. Just read the first page and see if you aren't hooked." (the first page is the title page... so no, I'm not hooked, he's a liar)

He goes on..."No, look at the scene breakdowns and the music list. Right there, no, right there.... (he's pointing and spitting on me as he's insistently pursuing my ear for his rapin')

"The Cole Porter girls I'm calling the Collettes, get it? Cole Porter, Collettes?! (yeah I fucking get it) The character Maurice is after Maurice Chevallier and I thought it was clever that he was named Maurice. But yeah... so my partner and I (basement girl?) are really excited about this. Do you know any producers in town? Do you think Broadway will be interested? Do you have any connections with producers? You know, you could play a part in this thing if it takes off. Tell you what, I'll give you a CASSETTE TAPE of the music from the show. I think you'll like it."

Where do I start with the rant part of this?

1. Of course I know producers, but who is Mr. Broadway?

2. Don't give me a cassette, time child.

3. I wouldn't play a part in this idea fart of yours because by the time you get funding, I'll be deaf from all the ear rapin' that has occurred over the last few months.

I think people are hesitant to really tell this guy to fuck off because he's got a hardened look to him. Sort of an ex-Marine or Drill Sergeant in VietNAM-ish sort of thing about him. Something ain't right about him, that's all I'm sayin'.

What blows my ear raped mind about people like him is that they think people like me would actually give them what they need. I mean, bones for the effort but pills for the mentality of that level of persistence. Honestly- Can't he see that I don't like him? Or is this one of those situations where I'm going to be forced into HULK MODE? I hate being forced into that mode because I'll destroy his sense of reality with a couple of sentences. I don't want to go full Simon Hulk-Cowell on him but I think I might have to.

The lethal part of his mentality or any like him is this: He USED to BE somebody. He was in radio for many years... God knows what happened there but he ain't in Radio no'mo'.

He works retail in a camping store. That goes along with my whole theory of him being an AWOL ex-Marine or having that chick in his basement all rigged up to electrical cords and forcing her to watch 42nd Street all goddamned night. But no worries, he's going to "let her go."

Anyhow... that's my news for today. Stay tuned for more posts of equal or greater value.

-Wendell Binks