I clap my hands and accidentally let a bit of a sadistic giggle slip out.
"You think that just because things have always been the way they were that that means that things are always going to continue to be the way they used to be."
I pause for a moment mouthing words to myself and making motions with a finger to make sure that what I said was something close to correct and then nod in satisfaction that it was either perfectly accurate or just so outright nonsense that poor Punky Drunkerton's head will explode from hearing it.
"It's not like you're a Rhodes Scholar or anything, Johnny Jims. It's not like you have a doctorate in history, mythology, or the secret Illuminati-Freemason history that the lizard people (which as far as I can tell is code for "the Jews") have been trying to keep hidden."
"So as far as you know there are no dragons, they have never been dragons, there never were dragons. Except… that's not really the case anymore, is it?"
"I mean Kalinda's been here for years now. She's been on television in front of millions upon millions of people."
"She's been poked, prodded, x-rayed, whatever the verb version of having an MRI done is. She's a seven foot tall, fire-breathing, bright blue lady with a tail. She's had her physics-defying Coldfire Breath studied by prestigious French scientists!"
"And I mean come on, you're a professional wrestler for Pokey Pete's sake! Look at the weird, spooky knobgoblins you run into every day. Wrestling zombies, wrestling vampires, undead Amish sorcerers with a fondness for MMA and Limp Bizkit, teleporting dudes and dudettes left and right…"
"Heck, you've got giant hairy ape men that go to Japan and become members of the Japanese nobility, only to come back clean shaven and become the head of a wrestling school because a laughing maniac who used to be friends with an evil oatmeal-faced wizard, his weird adopted son, and a yeti-mummy who grew up to be a ninja turned out to be a power-abusing fartmongler."
"There is a Bigfoot in Canada that teaches professional wrestling to underprivileged kids, one of whom is several hundred years old and has adopted the masked luchador identity of a juvenile fish-person."
"There are Bigfeet-trained Piscine-Canadians running around the world of professional wrestling and here you are disbelieving in dragons and underestimating clowns!"
I wave a scolding finger.
"Clowns aren't just for the circus, mister! And sideshows with human subjects were outlawed for exploiting the disabled and deformed quite awhile ago, so clowns aren't even there!"
"So where ARE the clowns, you ask? Why they're at children's birthday parties!"
A small herd of children has appeared out of nowhere, I inflate a few long, skinny balloons and with a few moments effort bind them into the form of a chainsaw.
Revving my inflatable weapon, I shoo off all the delightful little scamps with a minimum of bloodshed.
"We're on your food boxes, animal crackers, cereal, and ice cream cones especially!"
The camera cuts to a box of cereal on a table.
Now, I know what you're thinking; that there is no possible way that I could possibly be inside that box, and would be hard-pressed to teleport into it.
And you'd be right, which is why I beat the ever-loving peas out of that box of cereal with a giant mallet.
How dare you, box! How DARE you be a place that is forbidden, off limits, and too small to contain my glorious clowny majesties! Both of them!
"Why we're even in top-grossing feature films!"
The camera cuts to a movie theater where Stephen King's "It" is being shown on the big screen. Pennywise is looking all unsettling and spooky and waving hi with a severed arm and whatnot.
Now, I know what you're thinking. That I'm going to cut my way out of the screen and do horrible, horrible things to the people in the movie theater.
Sorry, you're wrong this time. I merely run in from off-screen, grab the sugar-free soy organic non-gmo low-fat free-range pumpkin spice vente tall grande latte-cino from the poor woman in the front row and put the poor drink out of its misery with a blow from my mighty mallet.
"You're at the movie theater for Pokey Pete's sake! Live a little! Put a few pints of butter and salt into those veins!" I say before I dash off back to the studio.
"We're in the hospitals, trying to entertain the sick kids because their deadbeat dads like you are passed out drunk in piles of garbage because of your teenaged fixation with UV lights and masturbating in tanning booths damaged your sperm and gave your poor, unloved sproglet leukemia!"
What? Really? Do you HONESTLY think I'm going to show something so vile and disgusting as Johnny Vachon waxing the dolphin at the local beauty salon slash canned meat dispensary?
Because I'm not going to show it. If that's something you want to see, head down to the Spam and Tan every weekday at about 3:30. He's only in there for like 30 seconds, the two pump chump.
"Why, sometimes Johnny, we're even closer than you think! We're in your home! We watch you sleep! We clowns, Johnny, are EVE-ER-EE-WHERE!"
I'm really proud of how I can spin my head around 360 degrees like that. It makes a horrendous popping noise, and then an even more horrendous popping noise combined with a sound like four pounds of deli ham slices trying to eat one another as my broken spine pops back into place and my neck muscles realign themselves.
"We're everywhere, Johnny. We're watching you. We really wish that you didn't touch yourself that way while watching those YouTube videos, but what can you do? Well, besides put on a blindfold and don earmuffs while you moan about Twilight Sparkle, flares, medial rings, and your poop chute."
I've got another one of those grins (#63 Saturday Morning Cartoon Villain About to Knock Down an Orphanage, though with the decline of cartoon orphanages there's a petition to rename it to Republican Congressperson Gleefully Removing Their Constituents Health Care Coverage).
"Why not only do we know where you live, Johnny, but sometimes we even know when you're going to die!"
And once again we cut with the camera, to where the requisite Pretty Teenaged Couple That Had Unprotected Pre-Marital Sex in the Woods have been bound, gagged, and tied to a chair. Held hostage by a fearsome creature.
It's none other than Watermelon Wilkes, the most sinister of fruits, with her emoness and facepaint, and tragic, rapey backstory holding the poor kids hostage for DARING to interrupt lesbian pollination season with something so abhorrent as heterosexual sex that would forever taint a young woman's precious meat curtains.
Now I'm sure you know exactly what's going to happen.
But you're wrong.
I burst out from inside the watermelon, mallet the remaining big chunks to death, and slip the young blonde lady the emo-melon-clown's knife so that she can free the two of them.
Oh.
Or I suppose she can have come under the influence of the lesbian pollen and now sporting a tragic backstory of her own now loathes the touch of all men, and thus she can stab her former boyfriend to death while embracing her nature as an emo-goth-plant-bitch.
That works too, I guess.
"Don't tell me I'm not ready, Johnny!" I say, shaking a scolding finger at the camera back in the studio now that I'm covered with coffee, blood, watermelon, and bits of cereal.
"I've got plans to fight people and things you haven't even DREAMED of!"
I pull down one of those projection screens, where I've made one of those string and thumbtacks idea webs with photos and maps and stuff.
"Do YOU have plans in place for fighting Kublei Khan if he turns out to be a Were-My Little Pony? DO YOU?! Well, aside from bend over and lift your horsey tail, of course."
I point the handle of my hammer to a crayon sketch of a tan colored pony with a red and yellow mane, tail, and familiar masked shape mark on his flank.
"Do you have plans to fight a reanimated Bruiser Brody if he just so happens to be brought back from the radioactive waste from a limited time only test market McDonald's taco truck?"
I glare into the camera and make the HUSS hand gesture, "Do you have plans in motion that take into account his new found love of crunchy shelled Mexican fast food, coupled with eternal servitude to his clown overlord and servile four-armed gumdrop monstrosity?"
I point an accusatory finger at the camera, "DO YOU, JOHNNY VACHON, IN YOUR DESIGNS TO BECOME DTW ETERNAL WARFARE CHAMPION HAVE A SITUATION IN PLACE TO DEAL WITH THE MOTHERFUCKING GRIMACE?! DO YOU?!"
I rip the photo of the Motherfucking Grimace from the board and shove it into the camera.
"LOOK AT HIM! LOOK AT HIM GOSH DARNED YOU! HOW ARE YOU GOING TO DEAL WITH HIS FLABBY, FURRY BODY TANKING THE BLOWS FROM ALL THE BLUNT WEAPONRY, EH?"
"HOW ARE YOU GOING TO PREPARE FOR HIS INFINITE ARRAY OF SUBMISSION HOLDS INVOLVING HIS FOUR ARMS? HUH?"
"HOW DO YOU ESCAPE HIS TRADEMARK REVERSE BEARHUG COUPLED WITH TWO-SIDED RIB TICKLING, HMM?!"
"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO, JOHNNY, WHEN YOU'RE LOOKING DOWN AN UNSPEAKABLE EVIL, CLOSE ENOUGH TO SMELL HIS RANCID, DISGUSTING, FETID BREATH FUELLED BY ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND STOLEN MILKSHAKES?!"
Oooh, now it's angry whisper time.
"Tell me, Johnny. Tell me. Tellmetellmetellme! What are your plans, Johnny? How are you going to prepare, Johnny? What are you going to do when the four-armed, seven-foot-tall gumdrop man is preparing to suck the vitae out of your eyeballs down into his gullet like he's done with so many milkshakes before?"
I tap my temple.
"Nothing, Johnny. There's nothing you can do against the horror that is the Motherfucking Grimace."
"You don't even think that dragons are real, Johnny. If you don't have the mental fortitude to comprehend a mere undead clown-dragon, then what hope do you have to face the existential horror of a junior eldritch abomination like the Motherfucking Grimace?"
"None. Zero. Zilch. Nada."
"No hope. Johnny."
"No hope at all."
"Just like your chances against me."
I promptly devour the picture of the Motherfucking Grimace, symbolically consuming him to gain a fraction of his power.
I smile (#626 Demonic Horror With Far Too Many Needle-Like Teeth Preparing to Eat a Live Meal) and lunge at the camera, ripping off the lens with my fangs. Devouring it with gleeful crunches as the image goes to static, but the audio remains.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
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