Evil Clown Generator



Generate your own Evil Clown at scottsmind.

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digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

random things my subconciousness said

Poached this idea from Pick Yin's 'Life is Great':



(rolled thru my brainpan between 1230 and 1530 today)

quick & dirty IQ

Your IQ Is 120

Your Logical Intelligence is Above Average
Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius
Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius
Your General Knowledge is Above Average

August's 11 thru 20

I am not a very warm and loving person. I sometimes wish knowing this was enough to jump-start the hearth and make me gregarious, extroverted, and charismatic. Instead, I look at this person who I am, and feel contentment with what I see. I am not unhappy with this me. I enjoy being alone with hours of solitude. I write, edit, and plan future stories — all for me. I also read to expand my knowledge about, largely, useless and trivial things (to those who are not planning to incorporate it into a plot at some time, if the occasion arises).

In more complicated times of simplicity our intelligentsia claimed we (on a flat earth) were infected with pox because of our sins.
People traveled among us and struck themselves. Chanting about crimes against their deity, they scarred their skin, got paid, and headed to the next village to reopen their backs for some dinner.
Were your distant relatives the soon to be survivors who merely watched, or were your great-grand-parents(x5) flagellants? Neither may have been foolishly pious — both may have been capitalizing on the plague by watching, or working in, a traveling road show; reality television for the middle ages.

I hate consumer-oriented gifts. I’m a bad gift receiver. If you never sent me another tangible item, I would not think less of you, I’d think more of you: I’d say—with confidence—you understand my reasons for not exchanging gifts and being less of a consumer. The best gift I ever got was a hand-made drawing.
My mother is the same. I sent her seven DVDs to show her sick and injured neighbors and whatnot. I got a curt, "no-thanks for all the junk mail I’m going to get because of this unwanted gift." I have been taught well.

I stared at the large window in the back wall as I entered. The view was amazing. Wood flooring and all-weather furniture lent the room an open-to-nature feel. I walked to the corner of the window and bent down. The frame met with the metal bulkhead cleanly; no visible depth. A window made of azlocrilic would need a two-inch thick frame.
"Something wrong?" Derek asked from behind me. Either Derek assumed anyone who could pull their focus away from the view must have discovered something wrong, or, the view was exacerbating some phobia of his.
"It’s a screen." I said.

"See?" My voice and legs raised me from the floor. We were now eye-level.
"Yes. Not all secrets are to be kept." His mocking tone and threatening eyes coagulated his desire to see me kneeling or prostate. Never a convincing beggar or worshipper, I—instead—inhaled and jutted out my chest.
"Did you expect to be alone in achieving your fulfillment?"
"No." He started. His accusing finger poised before my nose. "But operating from your own rulebook, my sweet, brings about some nasty consequences." He leaned close. His attempt at imposing intimidation almost made me smirk.
"Fear isn’t a tool."

Shelby blinked. One dollar would have been fine. Perhaps he'd hoped to win one hundred dollars, tops. He could have gotten away with that, sure. But, as he sat fixed in his father's recliner, Lay's Potato Chip crumbs strewn from his skinny thighs to the corner of his limp lips, his right hand still clutching that shiny little card, he knew that he'd won much more than a C-note.
The funny man on the small, glowing, screen repeated the winning numbers: "01-25-15-31-03-19-37." Shelby sat in stunned silence as the announcer signed off and commercials flashed before his widening eyes. Jackpot.

Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago.
Assigned to the 1st Battalion, 31st Infantry (Mechanized), from Camp Howze, Korea; living and working in a GP Large tent, located adjacent the DMZ on Camp Liberty Bell. Our patrol engaged one of theirs last week. Although no American was seriously wounded, we’re all on edge. The intelligent mosquitoes are insidious. A commo guy shot himself thru the head. He didn’t die. Our camo-nets provide a small amount of shade, but we’re still cooked by the heat of the sand. My son, whom I named after the James Bond author, was born. Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago.

Design the perfect breast using only foodstuffs:
First, take half of a Florida grapefruit; one that is just a slight bit larger than your average orange, would be preferred. Then take a miniature vanilla wafer; the ones which are about the size of a quarter...just a smooth little cookie...and place it slightly higher than the equatorial center of the fruit, towards the top of it — glued to the wall — so when you see it from straight on, it looks up at you. Finally, stick one of those little pink sour-sweet Smartie candies in the middle of that cookie.

Not only breach but breach cesarean, I refused to turn around and start the dive. I must have grown accustomed to living in those warm confines for nine and a half months and lost all intention of standing on my head until the doctors figured out what I’d already discovered: there was no way I was getting my big ass through that little opening. So, I waited for them to come in and get me. Oh Yea. Two weeks late and never did a headstand. I was, and still am, an obstinate fuck (and have never liked being upside down).

Unfortunately many people (parents are people first) do not accept things outside their radar. The same people who scorn television hatred—done to strangers by strangers—hurt their families and members of their communities with the exact same hatred. An Amish family cuts their children off like dead branches because they never returned after rumschpringe; a Jewish mother tears her clothing because a goy impregnated her daughter; parents excommunicate their son because his sexual orientation differs from theirs...in all cases, the reasons can be distilled down to: fear of the ‘unknown’ and the ‘different’ beyond the ring of firelight.

Film Reviews (Late Summer 2005)

Mysterious Skin (2004) directed by Gregg Araki (Splendor, 1999); starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Brady Corbet: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER theme. Depicting the ugly and troubling results of pedophilia (from two victim's points of view), this wonderfully directed film succeeds where The Woodsman and Palindromes did not.
Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005) directed by Miranda July (Jesus' Son, 1999); starring John Hawkes and Miranda July: Snaprating=Cheaper, RE-ORDER theme. This jigsaw-puzzle of vignettes paints an odd-joyful portrait of two characters and everyone they know. Fans of Todd Solondz's Happiness and Wes Anderson's Royal Tennenbaums will like this film.
The Devil's Rejects (2005) directed by Rob Zombie (House of 1000 Corpses, 2003); starring William Forsythe and Sid Haig: Gory-film-Fan Snaprating=Cheaper, All Others Snaprating=WFC, PROBLEM theme. A very gory — yet humorous — sequel, which outshines the slasher-flick which spawned it. Fans of Natural Born Killers will be thrilled by this shock-film because of it's caliber of acting and script.
The Chumscrubber (2005) directed by Arie Posin (Over My Dead Body, 2002); starring Jamie Bell and Camilla Belle: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme (secondary Re-Order theme). Fans of the Keepers Donnie Darko and American Beauty may enjoy this staged, Robert-Altman-esque, saga of self-medicated Californians because of the superb acting and the nod to Un Chien Andalou (1929).
Broken Flowers (2005) directed by Jim Jarmusch (Coffee and Cigarettes, 2003); starring Bill Murray and Sharon Stone: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER theme. Wonderfully directed, in a High Fidelity-meets-About Schmidt-way, this film never underestimates it's audience's intelligence. Cannes got it right this year.

Up and Down (Horem Pádem) (2004) directed by Jan Hrebejk (Divided We Fall, 2000); starring Petr Forman and Emília Vásáryová: Snaprating=WFC, RE-ORDER theme. A second-string depiction of hatred and bigotry, like an uncohesive Crash set in Europe.
Eulogy (2004) directed by Michael Clancy (Emily's Last Date, 1996); starring Zooey Deschanel, Debra Winger, Hank Azaria and Ray Romano: Snaprating=WFD, RE-ORDER Theme (Character sub-theme). A Hilarious mix of Big Chill and Home for the Holidays.
Employee of the Month (2004) directed by Mitch Rouse (directorial debut); starring Matt Dillon and Steve Zahn: Snaprating=Cheaper, PROBLEM theme. The skillfully written script overshadows all, even the the heavy-handed direction and average editing, in this amalgamation of Bad Santa, Clerks, and "About Last Night...".
Look at Me (Comme une image) (2004) directed by Agnès Jaoui (The Taste of Others, 2000); starring Marilou Berry and Jean-Pierre Bacri: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme. Fans of Real Women Have Curves may enjoy this story of a misunderstood daughter and her shallow family surrounded by French stereotypes.

My Obsolete Skill...Shorthand




You are 'Gregg shorthand'. Originally designed to enable people to write faster, it is also very useful for writing things which one does not want other people to read, inasmuch as almost no one knows shorthand any more.

You know how important it is to do things efficiently and on time. It 's comforting to say, 'practice makes perfect'. You also value your privacy, and (unlike some) you do not pretend to be friends with just everyone; that would be ridiculous. When you do make friends, you take them seriously, and faithfully keep what they confide in you to yourself. Unfortunately, your work (which is very important, of course) sometimes keeps you away from social activities, and you are often lonely. Your problem: Gregg shorthand has been obsolete for a long time.
What obsolete skill are you?
Quizilla

August's 1 thru 10

"...expression becomes about the writing and not the message," is deluded pouting. Writing muddy sentences on your blog is one thing, but you accepted an invitation to write on my site, balked after your first submission was returned for a re-write, and quit.
When a kid did this, I understood. Still living at home, my editing scraped across his corrected-by-Mom scab.
Shoveling sentence fragments for a quarter-hour, followed by a few minutes chopping off extra words, will never result in a 100-word patch of quality. It may take hours and still need an editor’s grouting tools to make it fit.

Your blood knows no better.
By divorcing my half-sister’s and mine before they died (and entombing your own age-addled mother against her wishes) you cast my filial obligations like a Pharaoh—in tempera. You also, somehow, allowed your brother’s revulsion for family to spread into your daughter and in two decades, I—twenty years junior—become you, become grandma: a resident of, "...I don’t want to be here...please take me home...they hurt me".
For which they are poorly paid; get on board! The length of purgatory will be in your hands until you lose the strength to suicide.

Finding someone who brings bliss and contentment into your casa, and maybe future, makes me happy.
Attempting to shine a gentle light on the soiled pigeon in her rearview mirror, our sister’s replacement-place (campus) was her way of trying to forget the lusty fingerprints, scripted lies, and nicotine-laced oxygen of her latest meet market.
When culling the deceitful herd—using a one-way screening tool, having unlimited time, and obtaining double-blind protection carries the stigma: 'overly careful and tired of meeting on campus'. "We inter-met," may sound like snowboard-skydiving to those afraid of heights, but they don’t walk in your zapatos.

I’ve been practicing nostalgic recall.
When I squint my eyes just a teensy-weensy bit — the inch deep, football-sized chunk of flesh cut out of your left scapula, the additional nine months within scud-missile range of the most rabidly governed and impoverished millions on this planet, and the self-inflicted hurdy gerdy you danced because your concubine’s aunt Flo missed her stop-over flight — appear as inconvenient blips in a blessed existence.
Your e-mail filters more than the TDC sewer smell, the twelve-hour days, and the 5½-day work-week. (Is it still?)
But recollections always cause me to affectionately remember FDNY 1997 and 1998.

The foolish think old needs to be hidden; negotiating with time by repeatedly celebrating their twenty-ninth birthday. Although I didn’t know you at 29, I’m glad to know you now and extremely pleased with the us of we — today, at the leading edge of your fourth decade. I could be happier only if our backyard was ocean beach or forested mountain…and maybe our horizon is blocking that abode from our view. Thank you for being the perfect paramour. My happiness has become blissful because of your influences and willingness to share your life with me for the last twenty-nine months.

I do not publicly correct the grammar of friends or family (unless I’m in a banter-provoking mood). Today’s breakfast companion said, "I had this bamboo plant growing in a wine craft." I didn’t correct her. The Yankee-menace said, "It’s a kind of ham that’s curated." No correction. But I open a newly-trawled blog to '...obligation to people dieing of thirst if your knowledgeable of where to find water...' and I take a minute to comment. Why? Because spoken words are immediately lost in the hubbub. Hypertext is the new granite.
Don’t chisel until you’re cured and your carafe is empty.

Why—when I catapult over—do you categorically refuse to return my playful intentions? My cataclysmic vocalizations, pleading for active altercations, are always met by a minimal allocation of near-catatonic silence. I yell for your presence but you always skulk away. If you don’t understand the language of Siam, would it be such a catastrophe to try and teach me your Russian? Stop playing in the bathroom, alone, with that stupid ball; come out here and chase me! If your education doesn’t include how to play, then placate me...or my application to excommunicate you will be submitted in triplicate.

My window frame over the unnamed city street—antiqued and nicotine coated by dead relatives—is the same rough shade of raw as the unfinished edgy patches. Payne’s gray façades tower over book-page concrete almost obliterated by their creator. Random crowd impressions, adorned by slices of hardboiled egg-moons and cliché pentagons, become lost under bland window shades. Unbalanced staring at fire escapes, which hinge above crooked marquees; all signs direct, all arrows point one way.
Incessantly glimpsing this thoroughfare one decade on top of the next, I have ceased wondering about it’s unoriginality and begun questioning: Who lives in there?

Indoor-only Popcorn was let outdoors by a taker. Budroe P. Wilson died under a bush in my front yard. Scared of heights, Louie ran to a neighbor-roof. Samantha, caught by a dog, died in my backyard. Doc chose to live elsewhere after four days of snow. The unnamed Siamese caught leukemia. Spencer hated living in a trailer park and Lloyd was given away to an ex-step. Momma-cat was taken to a distant farm. Evil black was buried in a pasture. A car hit Missy. Moe was given to a neighbor to be outdoors. Cody got run over by a bus.

Memories naught, strange visages kept
Shadows caught, beneath foot swept
Images wrought, still carefully frozen
Criteria fraught, non-randomly prep'd
Headlong, hysterical, brief giddy delight
Dandelion diphtheria, foraged crabapple cure
Dirt-road rest area, porch-yard twilight
His boost her quench, slaked well water pure
Witness old fear, her balancing poise
Uncertain too near, she backs in alarm
Truck blazing steer with silent noise
Evening blight peer, bath light decants
Unwilling to face, unsettled turn
Autumn unfazes, petals unlearn
Chilling pout night’s ethereal warmth awakes
Pickle jar blight, perturbed contemplates
Gradual bleach to bone
Pert turns to stone
Lusty stares grown
Babes die

detritus from a toad to a day

snap on over to my sidebar

For those who've not perused my sidebar for over a fortnight, I've added some interesting links covering a wide range of sites: From a useless bit of time-wasting at Virtual Stapler; thru a wonderful re-dubbed clip from the Disney Film 'Dumbo' at Pink Elephants; to a superior compilation of film lists and reviews at Movie Review Query Engine (MRQE).

Those in need of a heaping quantity of international information the US counter-intelligence community's World Fact Book now has a link; and, on a smaller scale, if you want to read an ever-changing story (being created by many writers, which I edit) Quill Ting now has a microbutton.

it was right, just that it waz (PMP lix)


digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

Prudence Aforé

"It is by the blind-idiocy of every wholesome American with an ability to squint and interpret what they see, that we have three unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudence never to practice them." - Snapperhead misquoting Mark Twain

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

Book Recommendation: Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

The matured and improved writing of J.K. Rowling has caught up with the ages of her characters. Because this sixth novel in the series walks comfortably in the resoled transition-book traveling slippers worn by The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, Children of Dune and Heartfire (Alvin Maker Series #5), this penultimate edition to the saga avoids the template-driven 'year of good outsmarting evil,' followed by it's predecessors. If the seventh book will actually be the last, I expect everything we think we know—now—will be turned upside-down between our ears, before the end of the next book.

Available online at discounted hardback prices (for those needing their fix). Non-addicts get a taste of JK at your library and this one will be available there, by the time you get a jones for it.