Sometimes, people ask me "Hey, Ash, why do you hate 'The Family Circus' so much?". My response is simple: I don't hate 'The Family Circus', I hate Bill Keane. You see, when I was twelve years old, Bill Keane raped my dog Lady with an aluminum yard stick.
It was like any other summer's day; we were loading up the station wagon with warm, soft, gooey pies. We would do this daily, and drive off down to the homeless shelter. There, we would eat the pies while we gently mocked and teased the homeless people. My dad would always do this trick with a quarter on a string. He would drop the quarter into the homeless person's styrofoam cup, and when he would reach for it, he would punch him in the stomach for using styrofoam and polluting the planet. We'd all laugh, because it was for a good cause.
Anyway, on that day, I decided to stay home and keep my dog Lady company. You see, normally she would come along with us, but she was expecting a package to be Fed Exed from Singapore, and wanted to be home to sign for it. I stood on the porch, laughing and waving as my family pulled out on the driveway, then blew them a kiss as they turned around the corner.
Lady had already gone into the den to smoke her cigars and read the paper (she only smoked when Mother was out of the house), so I decided to climb up onto the roof to begin neighbourhood surveilance.
It was like any other summer's day; we were loading up the station wagon with warm, soft, gooey pies. We would do this daily, and drive off down to the homeless shelter. There, we would eat the pies while we gently mocked and teased the homeless people. My dad would always do this trick with a quarter on a string. He would drop the quarter into the homeless person's styrofoam cup, and when he would reach for it, he would punch him in the stomach for using styrofoam and polluting the planet. We'd all laugh, because it was for a good cause.
Anyway, on that day, I decided to stay home and keep my dog Lady company. You see, normally she would come along with us, but she was expecting a package to be Fed Exed from Singapore, and wanted to be home to sign for it. I stood on the porch, laughing and waving as my family pulled out on the driveway, then blew them a kiss as they turned around the corner.
Lady had already gone into the den to smoke her cigars and read the paper (she only smoked when Mother was out of the house), so I decided to climb up onto the roof to begin neighbourhood surveilance.While some people think a standard Neighbourhood watch is sufficient, I much prefer to trust in the power of a pair of high-powered binoculars and my video recording equipment. Not only was my constant monitoring keeping the neighbourhood safe, but there was a surprisingly large number of homes where people never drew their curtains. I hadn't had to purchase any new porn since I was seven.
Up on the roof, I fired up the hibachi and put on a couple of souvlaki skewers, then settled down on my brown leather recliner, and began my vigil. I scanned the neighbourhood quickly, looking for any signs of malfeasance or nudity. I spotted a brown Ford Tempo coming down Canal Street, and zoomed in on the driver.
Ye gods, I thought to myself, it's Bill Keane! I was, at the time, probably the biggest Bill Keane fan ever. I had every "Family Circus" book ever printed, and also had a scrapbook filled with Bill Keane memorabilia: newspaper interviews, candid photos - even a lock of hair I stole from his barber!
Bill turned the corner, and drove onto Sanderson Avenue - he was coming towards my house! Not only that, but he was pulling into my very driveway! I was so excited, I nearly dropped my Clamato and Coke. I put my binoculars down, and ran across the roof to the access ladder. In my haste, I forgot about the piano-wire tripline, and tripped and fell off the roof. Luckily, I landed on a pile of feathers that we keep in the yard, next to the tar, just in case a Mormon shows up.
The fall did knock the wind out of me though, and I lay in the feathers, wheezing like some kind of asthmatic chicken fetishist. I think I passed out, because when I came too, I was naked. A quick trip to the clothes line had me dressed up once more (blue velour track suit with a red silk shirt), and I ran for the front door.
I was hoping that Mr. Keane was still at my house, but I was disappointed. His car was gone, so he must have driven off while I was unconscious. The front door to my house was open; in fact, it had been kicked off the hinges. I went inside, and found the place in a shambles. Bill had evidently been on a rampage. I picked up a small sandwich baggy which was lying next to the front door. It was encrusted with a white, powdery residue; apparently, Bill had been coked up. It could have been worse, he gets really nasty when he's on glue.
I began searching the house, and noticed the sounds of sobbing coming from the den. The door was open, and I came in to find Lady crying on the sofa. I comforted her, and we sat and talked. She told me what had happened: how Bill came in, his eyes wide in a cocaine-induced frenzy, the twin smells of vodka and pig semen blowing into the room every time he farted.
She pointed to the aluminum yard stick, and told me the sordid details. I'll spare you the graphic descriptions; suffice it to say that Bill Keane raped my dog Lady with that aluminum yard stick.
I tried to get revenge, but Bill was too smart. When I showed up at his house, hired goons beat the shit out of me while Bill watched and masturbated. I was defeated. I tried calling the cops, but when they asked him who had attacked my dog, he told them it was someone named "Ida Know", and they laughed and they laughed and they dropped the charges.
So now you know why I hate Bill Keane.
Up on the roof, I fired up the hibachi and put on a couple of souvlaki skewers, then settled down on my brown leather recliner, and began my vigil. I scanned the neighbourhood quickly, looking for any signs of malfeasance or nudity. I spotted a brown Ford Tempo coming down Canal Street, and zoomed in on the driver.
Ye gods, I thought to myself, it's Bill Keane! I was, at the time, probably the biggest Bill Keane fan ever. I had every "Family Circus" book ever printed, and also had a scrapbook filled with Bill Keane memorabilia: newspaper interviews, candid photos - even a lock of hair I stole from his barber!
Bill turned the corner, and drove onto Sanderson Avenue - he was coming towards my house! Not only that, but he was pulling into my very driveway! I was so excited, I nearly dropped my Clamato and Coke. I put my binoculars down, and ran across the roof to the access ladder. In my haste, I forgot about the piano-wire tripline, and tripped and fell off the roof. Luckily, I landed on a pile of feathers that we keep in the yard, next to the tar, just in case a Mormon shows up.
The fall did knock the wind out of me though, and I lay in the feathers, wheezing like some kind of asthmatic chicken fetishist. I think I passed out, because when I came too, I was naked. A quick trip to the clothes line had me dressed up once more (blue velour track suit with a red silk shirt), and I ran for the front door.
I was hoping that Mr. Keane was still at my house, but I was disappointed. His car was gone, so he must have driven off while I was unconscious. The front door to my house was open; in fact, it had been kicked off the hinges. I went inside, and found the place in a shambles. Bill had evidently been on a rampage. I picked up a small sandwich baggy which was lying next to the front door. It was encrusted with a white, powdery residue; apparently, Bill had been coked up. It could have been worse, he gets really nasty when he's on glue.
I began searching the house, and noticed the sounds of sobbing coming from the den. The door was open, and I came in to find Lady crying on the sofa. I comforted her, and we sat and talked. She told me what had happened: how Bill came in, his eyes wide in a cocaine-induced frenzy, the twin smells of vodka and pig semen blowing into the room every time he farted.
She pointed to the aluminum yard stick, and told me the sordid details. I'll spare you the graphic descriptions; suffice it to say that Bill Keane raped my dog Lady with that aluminum yard stick.
I tried to get revenge, but Bill was too smart. When I showed up at his house, hired goons beat the shit out of me while Bill watched and masturbated. I was defeated. I tried calling the cops, but when they asked him who had attacked my dog, he told them it was someone named "Ida Know", and they laughed and they laughed and they dropped the charges.
So now you know why I hate Bill Keane.
1 comment:
C'mon! What do you take us for? Morons? It's a little hard to believe. Not even you would have dared to pair blue velour with red silk.
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