by Max Mooseman, author of Bastard! A Mushroom Trip
As an entertainer, I am a dark sort. A sad, angry clown who’s madness jumps into your throat and tickles out a guilty guffaw. When I am good, I am like a car crash. Your eyes stay locked on me looking for the gory goods while you shield your child’s eyes and hope they never figure out people like me exist.
I would love to just make you laugh. I would love to inspire the sweet innocent smile delivered through something pure and wonderful but I don’t think it is in the cards for me. As the Oracle said, “we’re all here to do what we’re all here to do.”
For some reason, I can channel and convey the empathetic pieces of our worst impulses. I am a master of where your nightmare meets orgasmic joy and your impulses twist until you hear that cackle of insanity toward the bridge of your nose.
What am I for? I have no idea. I suspect I am necessary the way a rainy week makes you notice the sunshine. Not bad. I like the rain.