If the circus is “The Greatest Show on Earth,” then my name is JC Penney.

I recently found myself on the outside of the center ring at a county circus. It was completely by accident. You see, I was traversing the countryside by a buggy powered by two actual horses from Dublin to London…Arkansas. The trip was going as planned. The atmosphere was placid and the air was pure and extremely oxygenated by the not-so-existent Arkansas rainforest. The air was actually polluted by gaseous fowl hovering no more than fourteen meters above my travel capsule…a capsule that used to be black but is now completely white. I would not call it an off-white…more of a poop white.

Now then, where was I?

Oh yes, after he stabbed me I found myself lying alone in a ditch filled with Ozarka spring water. I had been robbed of all my possessions: my wallet, Dr. Martin dress boots, even my magical monocle. This monocle allowed me to see into the future…of rock ‘n’ roll.

It was an incredible experience. I had only looked into it once for fear that it would steal my soul and bring judgment onto my people.

But the one time I looked into the mysterious lens, I was taken to a great field once used for raising pet corn. On this day, however, it had been conquered by a great people from a place called Hip. Upon a gargantuan platform stood a man…a very dark-skinned man. (Before this I had only heard there were such a charred people.) He was strapped into a medium-sized electronic device which seemed to have taken over his body and was using him as a medium through which to speak. His voice was deep with a regal growl as if he was proclaiming his majesty and well-being.

Then, without any warning at all, he let out something that, upon deep reflection, I determined to be a battle cry.

At this point everyone lying in the field stood at attention and obeyed every command that came forth from this dark god’s fiery, electric voice. Then a giant fireball came out of the sky and consumed everything and everyone in sight. Upon further inspection I found a deep hole and in this hole was some sort of container that contained, ironically, a baby.

This is my account of how I believe the world will come to an end 32 years from now in the year of our Lord 1969.

Joseph Allen Reed was confirmed dead at 4:17 p.m. on June 24th, 2082.

According to Rwandan authorities he was shot twice by a member of a radical Rwandan political movement known only by a symbol: a pink beret. The suspect is in custody and has released no comment.

Dr. Reed was in the midst of delivering a speech promoting peace and compromise in the midst of civil unrest. Born on May 23, 1982, Dr. Reed was still speaking and doing work among the poor at 100 years of age. This was his greatest passion. His heart was full of love and compassion. He once stated that if he could ask God for one thing it would be to “give me a bigger heart and more compassion for the masses.” He lived every single moment of his life to the fullest, always taking time to meet the needs of every person around him.

Dr. Joseph Allen Reed was born in a small town in the panhandle of Oklahoma. He graduated at the top of his high school class and went on to gain a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology at Southern Nazarene University. After graduating in the top 15% of his class, he went on to get a Master’s degree in School Psychology from the University of Central Oklahoma and then a Doctorate in Theology from Fuller Seminary.

Dr. Reed then went to work as a School Psychologist in the public school system in southern California. It was there that he wrote his first of thirty-seven books. His most popular work is entitled The Diaries of Andrew. It was heralded as the “most important work for adolescents in this generation,” and received a Pulitzer Prize. Some of the topics it covers include self-esteem, sexual orientation, and abuse.

Dr. Reed was very passionate about empowering the younger generation to become great leaders. He started many after-school programs in addition to his writing, which helped to foster the development of the leadership qualities and education of children of all ages. This small program later became known as the American Youth Movement. Many of our current leaders have been through this program in some way, including President Walters.

It was shortly after graduation that he met his future wife, Michelle Kwan. He had always loved ice-skating and fell in love after the Winter Games in Nagano, Japan. He wrote a letter to her every day for seven years until he got his first response. After eight months of courtship, they were married on a traditional Japanese water garden in southern California.

Upon their marriage, Dr. and Mrs. Reed began doing much traveling to promote the American Youth Movement. Together they worked to establish this program in all fifty states within five years. Many political leaders in other nations took notice. Dr. Reed was invited to speak to the governments of many developed and developing nations alike. In just ten years, the American Youth Movement became the Global Youth Movement.

After spending twenty years working with GYM, Dr. Reed began to focus more attention to one of his earliest childhood passions: music. Joseph loved to write music. He began as part of a trio known as Mr. Blue and the Colortones. They had one song, “Why, Darlene,” break into the Top 100. After little success as part of the trio, Dr. Reed went to work as a solo artist. He wrote and recorded everything himself in his home studio in Laguna Beach, CA. His first album, The Panic Project, went triple platinum and spawned many Top 5 hits including his number-one smash hit: “Excuse my Irresponsibility, I am Improperly Trained.” After experiencing the success of his first album, Dr. Reed recorded three further albums, each less successful than the previous.

After his brief stint at the top of the charts, Dr. Reed and his wife then spent the next forty years doing more work in conjunction with the Global Youth Movement. Together, they toured the world working to establish GYM in every country on earth. To this day, France is the only country yet to be responsive. It was during this time that Michelle became ill with the flu and passed on to the next life at the age of 59. Shortly after her death, Dr. Reed returned to his home in Orange County, CA and went into what he called in his autobiography, Man with a Mission, his “orange period.” He spent many days watching slide shows of him and his wife, eating nothing but oranges, and lying in his empty pool. After a few days, he finally “came to his senses,” as he called it, and began working again in the public school system as a School Psychologist in Orange County, California.

It was during this time that he wrote his final book, The Art of Exercise, which was a humorous satire on the public education system. It was only mildly successful as it contained much more gibberish than actual words.

After working fifteen years as a school psychologist, he retired at the age of 79. He moved in to a retirement community where he played horseshoes and drank coffee every morning at 6:00 a.m. He would appear in public on several occasions on behalf of the Global Youth Movement, delivering speeches and promoting his ideas of peace and compassion. It was during one of these speeches in Kigali, Rwanda that he was assassinated.

Dr. Reed had no children, as he was sterile due to frostbite while climbing Mt. Everest when he was in college. He is the longest surviving member of his family.

Dr. Reed’s funeral service was very large, attended by more than 5,000 people and televised on CNN. It was attended by people of every walk of life, including diplomats, presidents, teachers, and lumberjacks. President Walters made this statement in his eulogy, which sums up the kind of life Dr. Reed lived: “His music, his writing, and the Global Youth Movement are his legacy. Though he has no natural children, he has many who would call him father. I am one of his children. He will be missed.”

Dr. Reed’s last wish is that his entire estate be converted into an orphanage for hungry and homeless Asian children and the royalties from his music be donated to the Global Youth Movement and VH1. He is encouraging all who are inspired or have been impacted by GYM to contribute something, whether it be time, money, or any type of resource so that its continued impact would be felt among the nations of the world.

The bathroom is too intimate a place to meet someone for the first time. I must apologize, for I am getting ahead of myself. You probably already know too much at this point. Let me back up by asking a question. Was the web-cam really necessary?

I feel that when one is staying in a new home for the first time, the host should remove all creepy items. These would include web-cams, issues of Maxim and FHM, and any notebook with the working title “Addresses of Girls I Wish to Stalk.” Also, if one sees an inordinate, excessive amount of scented candles and lotions: run.

The above is a list of items found in the house of Roger Griswold. I must say that at first glance I felt quite uncomfortable and in danger. His behavior was a bit queer. I’m not certain if his shower curtain was made of human skin, but needless to say, I did not jump in the bathtub. Jumping in the bathtub is dangerous. I did not see any slip-resistant stickers on the floor of the tub. I’m a man of precaution and prudence. Trampolines are for jumping, bathtubs are for bathing- not cleaning fish, which is what Mr. Griswold was doing when I first met him.

I would have engaged in a friendly, sturdy handshake, but it was covered in fish goo. It was not terribly strange that he was cleaning a fish, (rainbow trout), in his bathing capsule, but the fact that he had a bottle of cherry scented lotion in his back pocket. Is that really how one cleans a fish? Is the lotion necessary? But who am I to determine whether or not fish should experience the joy of lubricated skin?

Did I mention that Mr. Griswold was wearing overalls? That was all he was wearing. The only thing between his hair-clad chest and my personal space was a thin strip of stained denim. The stain did not appear to be friendly. Neither did his chest hair that numbered many.

Anyhow, I am getting off topic, which is somewhat like being off one’s rocker. The previous phrase describes to a T Mr. Griswold’s behavior.

I suppose I just don’t understand what cherry lotion, clean fish, and a web-cam have to do with a normal lifestyle. This is when he-she showed me his knife. I almost had my fill of weird for the evening, but what tipped the weirdness scale is when he began to put on lipstick and asked me to join him for a tea party. What could I do? I did not want to be rude. But at the same time, I did not want to become his next shower curtain.

So I had some tea and left with a lovely guest bag that contained a home video and some scented candles.

As you, the reader, have probably already read, the They Might Be Giants show was a bust. They were great, but the atmosphere created by the mindless buffoons who attended the concert was like termites constantly eating at my house of joy. I finally caved. Joyless and cold in St. Louis was I. Even the spectacular melodies of “Birdhouse in Your Soul” and “Why Did You Grow a Beard?” couldn’t combat and remedy the bitterness I was feeling.

So, onward I must trudge in this journey of life. I cannot wallow in this apparent defeat, for life is moving on. Remember Corky from Life Goes On? He moved on with life. And I don’t even have Down Syndrome.

Or maybe I do. I am down, as they say, in the dumps. My world is collapsing fast, like a starship falling from the atmosphere to a foreign wasteland of a planet whose only inhabitants are hostile, cannibalistic, incestuous, bi-sexual creatures.

When I have felt like this in the past, I would just throw Flood by TMBG on my portable discman and let the gloriousness and brilliance of it take the pollution to a land far away from this place. However, listening to the aforementioned album only reminds me of my time in the desert. It was as if I was wandering in a vast land of waste, and I am unable to find my way. My refuge and home have now been destroyed. My family has been raped. Where will I find rest? Where shall I put my head at moonrise? Alas, I am but a wandering fool with no bit of direction. Even the North Star is dimmed and its existence is almost inconceivable due to the pollutants in the once transparent atmosphere.

The previous statement reminds me of why global warming is the enemy of our future. We are committing suicide so to speak….not unlike a once great man leaping from a skyscraper to his death because of his inability to deal with his gambling debt and his involvement in child pornography. It’s as if he is encapsulated by a tidal wave…he is swept out to sea and can no longer find his way home to his soul. I will not resort to self-induced death, but everyone dies sometime.

Even Corky died.

The only hope I have is not to live within the memory of what I would like to call “Journey in Hades.” Life will move forward, but my North Star will always be a little bit dimmer from now on.

I know this is not the typical nonsensical article to which you have grown accustomed, but I must make known my suffering and plight, else my life might soon be over. My soul once was light, but now is dark. Let it be finished, this thing they call life.

Life goes on, but will I allow myself to participate?

“Well, you see, if I would not have killed her the situation would have been even more complicated.”

It wasn’t that he was not in love with her. I think the relationship’s passion level was comparable to that of a rabid German Shepherd to an Irish goat. So, why the inexplicable action? What is it about the opposite sex that evokes such passion- a passion which was once expressed by actions of love and selflessness, but now is revealed by evil plots and desires?

I, for one, thought my companion, or amigo if you will, was taking this situation to a level one degree, or perhaps two, higher than necessary.

I am sure the German Shepherd had no idea he was eating my friend’s Irish goat and consequently devouring his means of income. I am positive that the German canine would have found another, “less essential” Irish Goat if he had known the situation. I could understand if the Germans had pummeled the Irish in a futbol match, but this was only his business and lifestyle.

He was a rancher and a shepherd. Ironically, he was of German descent, dating (carbon) back to the 1600’s. His father was a dog-breeder and his mother a well-to-do harlot. So this poses a difficult question on our humanness. Why would a German Shepherd act in such a way to demean and attempt to destroy a fellow German Shepherd? (I use this term loosely.) Why must we, as humans, compete against one another for our own selfish gain?

In the end, our hands may be full of possessions, but our hearts are heavy with guilt, our seats at the dinner table are left unoccupied, and our funeral is largely unattended, save the people who are present only to ease their guilt-laden souls due to the fact that they stand to lavishly inherit the despot’s riches.

Is this what life has become? What happened to good, old-fashioned teamwork? I propose a treaty between the now-at-war Irish and German people. Senseless fighting and rabble-rousing is not the answer. Be more like France. Run away!

He beat the hamburger patties without mercy.

� “The Butcher,” as he liked to be called, showed less grace with his victim with each blow, hoping the beef would know a small amount of the pain he felt. As I walked into the room, I asked “The Butcher” one question: “What is your beef with the beef?” I then laughed out loud, (lol), at my aforementioned pun which I mentioned less than 22 words ago. Remember when I used the word beef in two different ways with the intent that the reader would pick up on the two different meanings of the same word used in the same phrase and find its conclusion to be humorous in nature?

As I pondered whether or not to type that statement I thought to myself in my mind: “You only live once, just go for it. After all, what do you have to lose?” I then answered myself, imagining that I was a hunter standing over my fresh kill, saying: “Don’t wuss out. You are the hunter and these words are thy victim. You hold the power of life and death. With every stroke of the key you can force kingdoms to crumble and enemies to be defeated, to be cast into everlasting darkness where there is no light, hope, or even a hint of a fresh, outdoor scent.� You, author, are the butcher and these words are your beef.� Pound them mercilessly until the reader knows your pain and suffering.”

Just then I began to criticize my hunting skills.� First of all, I am not a very good shot.� I was never good at killing rabbits or prairie dogs with my .22 when I was in Jr. High.� Secondly, I am not a good “sidler.”� I can’t really sneak up on anyone, being that my shoes squeak like that weird kid in my high school class.� You know, the kid who always walked around with a gait not unlike a duck wearing constantly soiled trousers?� I pretty much hunt like that guy, the only exception being that I do not smell of rotten flesh.

However, if I am going to hunt words with great skill, I need to become what words prey upon.� What is it that will draw the words to my mind and my attention?� Deer hunters soak themselves in deer urine.� What “word urine” or “grammar piss,” (as it is more commonly known), can I soak myself in to attract the words that will once again divide this nation into two powerful halves?� I figure we have a better chance of taking over the world if there are two of us.� Aren’t two heads better than one?� Maybe one of us could sneak around while the other is distracting the enemy, (perhaps an Arab nation of some sort…..or at least someone who doesn’t speak the same language, maybe France), by making strange noises or spinning about like a dreidel, and stab France or Iran or whoever in the head with a bowie knife.� After all, what’s more American than a bowie knife…apple pie?� I don’t think so.� At least this knife bears the name of a progressive English musician who penned such classics as, “The Man Who Sold the World,” and “Heroes.”� What did apple pie ever do for America, make us fatter?� Thank you, apple pie, for killing us softly with your texture and sweet taste.

So, in conclusion, it is not completely illogical for me to conclude with this concluding thought: Apple pie is the real American enemy.

“The aliens will be striking at midnight,” thought one of the students. “No,” stated another thought that resides in the same student’s head, “aliens are not real because I have never seen one.” “Actually,” stated yet another thought, “aliens do exist because mine eyes have seen them.” This thought was strange, yet different. It had a different scent and commanded a different action. This thought, as they say, spoke in British tones. It was, therefore, sophisticated and charming. Somehow, its knowledge and validity was founded upon the rock of its own accent.

This aforementioned exchange took place in the head of one Pedro Mooney. Pedro was an intelligent…… perhaps I am being generous with this term. Let me begin again. Pedro was alive and breathing, mostly due to his enlarged heart. However, this will come into play later. For now, be patient. I, the author, command it. He was not Spanish, to clarify for the racial profiler who might be reading this story. He was, in fact, Canadian. Well, actually he was ½ Canadian, ½ Swede, and ¼ Dutch. He was a large boy and his mother was 100% whorish.

Pedro sat in his seat in Senior English, pondering the existence of aliens and the validity of the Brits. He had no idea what he wanted to do in life. He just could not find his place in this world. For the most part, he was a normal boy. But Pedro never knew the value of a dollar. Perhaps that is why he grew up poor. He was constantly working, but never really made any money. Still, he grinned incessantly like an idiot.

Actually, now that I think about it, I remember Pedro in my English class. He really wasn’t that intelligent at all. I began this story as a fictitious one. Who knew it would be based on actual events? Yeah, Pedro was the kid of whom we used to make fun. He had an enlarged heart which explained his disproportioned body. We used to call him “tub-thumper,” not because of the Chumbawumba album, but because his heart could literally fill an entire tub. I bet that heart pumped a lot of blood. Is that why he died…too much blood? That can’t be true. As the old heavy metal saying goes: “there is no such thing as too much blood.” And metal is the most valid form of music on the planet today. I would highly consider anything metal over a doctor’s report. It’s harder and more durable. Come to think of it, the doctor wasn’t even British. There is no way his reports could even be in the vicinity of valid.

I bet Pedro’s death has something to do with his getting hit by that car. And you know what? I saw the scene. There really wasn’t that much blood at all. I think Pedro never really had an enlarged heart. I knew it! He was an illegal immigrant from Mexico who feigned this illness in order that no one would send him back. He played on our sympathies and knew that our superior Christian ethics would not allow us to even consider suspecting a boy with such a moral crime. I thought he did extremely well in Spanish class for a ½ Canadian, ½ Swede, ¼ Dutch boy. This is exactly why we should build a highly secure barbed-wire fence between the U.S. and Mexico.