Evil Plastic Santa:Clown Car Tragedy of 1997

The saddest thing in the world/with ironic undertones, other than a clown in an iron lung, was a horrifying accident that happened in Denver some years ago. Does one laugh and find the humor funny or does appreciate a greater meaning to it all, when one thinks about what happened. How should one feel when they think about a horrible accident involving clown gag cars.

Five clowns, heading from a clown convention held at the Denver Ramada conference room on "Improving Communication through Balloon Animals", were heading to a local Tex-Mexican resteraunt - which was owned by a Korean man - during their lunch break. ALL OF A SUDDEN, without warning one of the cars swivveled out of control in such a way that cars behind moved around furiously and so fast that they did not notice the four clown cars in motorcade behind them. Clown gag cars that each held twelve: sixty clowns in all. Officer Newhart, working the scene described it as: "the worst and most ironically hilarious of accidents in the last forty-seven years. I was thinking about submitting some sort of essay or something to the reader's digest or something: "Clown Cars: A Tale of Tragedy" - something along those lines. But part of me thought that it might be in poor taste to do something like that. A rookie cop brought the special hilarious police ribbon but we told them that was in bad taste and he went home for the day to sulk. I thought that wasn't really neccessary but he insisted," he went on and on and concluded forty-five minutes later by saying: "This is funniest tragedy in nearly a half century. I myself have never laughed and cried so much in one sitting since watching: Sophie's Choice."

The Killer Clown Car Tragedy of 1997. Did it happen: probably not, but could it? No, probably not; but in the world of Evil Plastic Santa: who knows.

Evil Plastic Santa: Letter to the Editor # 3: Faux Rumors of Fortunatai by Gary H.

Dear Letter to the Editor,
A mass of rumors, to many in quantity to be listed; of horribly false stories - that are both untrue and silly - have recently been propagated by the "Medias fortunatai". The story that I, the constable of Educational Masteries, has found himself on the wrong end of a scandal - involving: Canadian bacon, a spatula, four oil drums filled with petroleum jelly and a computer generated tiger - is a ridiculous notion that is only worth mention because of the general aptitude of silliness. How anyone could take these allegations seriously is a fowl reminder of the declining intellectual capacities of the fortunate’s themselves. I hope that the issue resolves itself with as little input and action, on my part, as possible. I most desire a haste remedy to this problem. Shadows and dust shall the faux truth of Medias fortunatai go away without incident. To shadow, ash and dust they shall become and a bid good day to your, sir.

Sincerely

The Educational Minister of Scabocadoo.


Dear Mr. Scabocadoo,
I'm sorry to hear that a stable of false rumors has been made your sad lot in life but here's a thought: What are you talking about? What's a fortunatai? I don't even know how to pronounce that. Is it Dutch? Are you French? Are you a Frenchie, huh? Do you like Crepe's? Croissants? The only thing faux around you is your disposition. Now I have to consult a thesaurus just to make sure I used the word in the right context. Thanks a lot.

Sincerely
Letter to the Editor

Evil Plastic Santa: Demented Hedgehog by Gary H.

"Oh, the little varment who likes to plow through the wheatfields and steal mi crops. Ye are in for a most unfortunate surprise" said the argicultural engineer (FARMER); armed with menacing death like scythe and fowl countenance. His declaration of threat to all the infinite quantity of varments he knew frolic among the produce of his given trade. "Wave of the future: gopher free, hedgehog free, that's way this farm shall be" There were no hedgehog's in this part of the world but he did not like the idea that one might immigrate to these regions; that of its own accord would make the pilgrimage to his farm. To the shangrala of rodent and varment kind. If the hedgehog comes, so to will his land fall into entropy and chaos and he knows he will not be all to reclaim it. "The other rodents be disorganized, they random move and seldom think of the day after next. But the hedgehog; the hedgehog is different, the hedgehog could bring the end of all of this: the reverse of serfdom. Where those who occupy the land destroy it. These rodents, parasites; the last thing they need is leadership and organization." His fellow farmers at the pub told him he was made. Demented, tormented by the thoughts of imaginary hedgehogs scouring about the briar near his home. Planning with brilliantly malicious intent ways to overthrow the leader of these lands. That is ways to over throw him the FARMER - in this unnamed land somewhere west of Eden - a coup: hedgehog style. All the men in his local pub thought he had sercomb to madness...possibly do to mercury. But that was until the night of the devil's moon, that an unlikely nemesis in hedgehog form came into the town, during, the night and proved the folly of assumption.

The Farmer wanted to be right. But not like this; not like this.

Evil Plastic Santa: The Birth of Evil Plastic Santa by Gary H.

From the diary of the Evil Plastic Santa

The Day of my Birth by Evil Plastic Santa

A cold day, void of all the pleasantries of christmas, found itself the day of my birth. The 25th day of the last month in the year 474, in what some consider the end of the official Roman light (but not its Byzantine counterpart - the successor line and continuation of continuity of the roman empire) when the totality of the barbarian invasions sacked the city and it found itself poor upkeep, ruin and atrophy. I was a hard form, brutal seed of a mother damned - near unwanted form of I. The brood of some fowl event that would cripple the mother that bore me hence and would end the lot of her in all due time from the complication of an unintended pregnancy, a death sentence to say the least. My father, source of the seed was a plastic Snowman, made long before the time of plastic. What would be the end result of his past plunder would be a plastic santa sired. Plastic Jack Frost given rise to the Evil Plastic Santa, made evil after successfully sacking the city of Turatorian, a quaint twelve bedroom republic, using only a thimble made of: Humsuckle Silly. I have no idea what 'humsuckle silly' is but I knew it was the source of the end Turatorian livelihoods and the rise of the reign of Evil Plastic Santa. A plastic santa, born from a Plastic Jack Frost in the city of Rome: 474, just before its fall. Some would say this to be an omen of lesser days of happiness to come. I would say: Conquest for the evil santa made of Plastic and defeat of co-op republics and coup of the board of director's of one of these CO-OPS.

- Evil Plastic Santa -

To be continued...

Evil Plastic Santa: Suey by Gary H.

All the life’s a stage and we all want to be the main character in this lavis Bob Fosseian production of our lives. Nothing is realer than cinema. Every perspective can be seen (or just the ones that are important). We know our characters better than we know some of our friends and family. Don’t worry if you’re happy and you know and you really want to show. Cause If you’ve got a song in your heart sing into a telephone and all the world will sing along with you in perfect key and perfect choreography. You’ll walk outside on a busy street and all the world will sing along with you, providing a chorus or someone for you to sing a long to. The people will do thus for no other reason other it’s the thing to do right now, have nothing to do right then or cause there being paid scale. But don’t worry about being upstaged by another performer or having to one day be the supporting singer in another person’s life story being sung in Bollywood fashion. Don’t ever worry that someone will stumble or fumble their lines or that it’ll be you who ruins a person’s ode to love cause you can’t pronounce the words: "devoted to" correctly. They won’t, but if by some odd chance they do you can always The perfomers, including yourself are well trained and well prepared for all of life’s musical moments. Most of the ‘performers’ went to the best performing art schools in the world, some of them were discovered by some chance encounter or "climbed" their way up the social "ladder" or worked on Broadway. There can be only one protagonist, everyone else must be a supporting character.

Evil Plastic Santa: Dividing Forces by Gary H.

Imagine a world where the dividing forces imposed a strict curfew and tarriff just because they felt like it. Who are the dividing forces? Well, they're kind of like the 'x' in an equation. They can represent any value that you wish them to - and if the 'x' variable you had in mind is already a dividing force that already imposes strict curfews and stingent tarrif's -- than not only will you have a doubled, tripled or quadrapled pain in the bugger but you will always be severely scrutinized for a complete and total lack of originality and creativity.
And now before the rant becomes unsalavageble let me explain: The dividing force could be anything, The Easter Bunny, Free Unlimited Checking, anything. If you choice a dividing force that is already a dividing force, to substitute the metaphorical 'x' variable in life instead of something original - you are someone who is guilty of stuck-in-the-box thinking and there is no help for your kind at all. There is no help for 'in the box' thinkers who imagine dividing forces that already impose prohibitive tarrif's and curfews. Alas and goodbye as this blog loses energy and disintegrates to nothingess, returning back to the sub-atomic particles it came from.

Evil Plastic Santa: The Salamander with a Goatee by Gary H.

There was a salamander who had a goatee. He shaved it off, joined the army, was shipped off to Greenland, left the army, met a girl named Allysa, and they eventually had a family, they paid their taxes and lead an otherwise ordinary life where he sold various products starting with the letters: 'G' and 'D'. End of story. Disappointed. You should be. It's a very lame story. If you found the story interesting you should give yourself a good flogging. If you didn't, give yourself a pat on the back...or a flogging if you're into that sort of thing. If you believe any word of this story, a flogging just won't suffice. You will need something a little more poetic. I hear maces are good, especially as a christmas decor that screams good taste, Assuming you're not on the recieving end of this fashionable medieval weaponry (of course). If, however, you want more of the Salamander Chronciles, well then there is one story you might find interesting. One night, many years ago, while the Salamander's wife was pregnant with, who would be their second son child Justin. The Salamander was awoken by a spectral image of a white clothed man, and next to him was another Salamander. A Salamander that looked just like our Salamander but a much older Salamander. He could have been the guy's grandfather. Our friend the Saladamander demands an explaination: Who are you people? and the spectral figure cries out: "I am a ghost from an alternate future come to show you, yourself from the future, I mean show the future you, this version of you. What would happen if you shaved the beard off and joined the army?" The Salamander in the "past" say's: "So, what does he think?" and the old, alternate future Salamander say's: "I should keep the goatee!"

End of Story. End of Blog.