A Beaster Miracle
BY IAN MURPHY
‚ÄúBut, what?‚ÄĚ I wondered, pinning my bright red fedora to the curly afro-wig. I checked my face paint in the side mirror and smiled.
‚ÄúBut,‚ÄĚ she reflected, steering the wheel, ‚Äúit is sort of mean.‚ÄĚ
‚ÄúLike teaching a small child that they‚Äôre going to hell?‚ÄĚ I shot back. ‚ÄúStraighten up and fly right, Little Jimmy, or it‚Äôs Satan‚Äôs pitchfork‚ÄĒright in your ass‚ÄĒfor all motherfucking eternity!‚ÄĚ I illustrated by repeatedly stabbing the dashboard with my balloon-animal fish.
‚ÄúOK!‚ÄĚ she relented. ‚ÄúBut what‚Äôs the point?‚ÄĚ
I slapped my forehead and said, ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not that cryptic! What these people believe is a fucking joke. I‚Äôm dressed as a clown. What‚ÄĒwhat‚ÄĒwhat‚Äôs not to get?‚ÄĚ (more…)