Finals, Racists, & Creepy Ass Clowns

I found this fucked up clown picture and thought I’d share. I have no idea what I was searching for now, it has taken hold of my mind and erased the entire 15 minutes that preceded finding it.

As ever, I’ve been busy as hell. My mom was in the hospital for a few days – she seems to be doing a lot better now, thank God – work is a non-stop party, and school is taking up any and all writing time I may have in the course of any given week as we gear up for finals. Yay finals! I’m actually really enjoying this class but I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’ve been given a couple books, either as presents or as loans, and it’d be nice to have the time to actually read them.

Oh and I joined a gym. About four months back, I fucked up my knee and it’s been causing me no end of pain ever since. I went to the doctor and he said, “Beats the shit outta me,” and sent me to an orthopedic surgeon and he basically said, “Congratulations, you have arthritis and you’re not even 40.” Then he told me I might be able to reverse it if I lose a bunch of weight, hence the gym. Then he made fun of fat people in general and one fat lady in particular, the skinny little dick. He’s also a pedophile (I can say whatever I want about him if I don’t give his name, right?).

Driving to work this morning, I inexplicably had this memory come to mind: I was maybe 13 or 14 and was hanging out on my dad’s boat at Lake Powell. We were fueling up at Rainbow Bridge and everyone else was hanging out at the convenience store at the end of the dock. I’d already finished my business at the convenience store because of my rather profound need to use the bathroom. When you’re cove camping at Lake Powell, you have two choices when taking a dump. The first is to walk as far away as you can from your camp site, dig a hole, and shit in it like a fucking cave man. The second is to hold it for as long as you can and wait to use an actual restroom the next time you go to Rainbow Bridge or Bullfrog Marina for gas.

It’s entirely possible that I jumped off the boat and swam the rest of the way as soon as the docks at Rainbow came into view.

In any case, I’d finished leaving half my body weight in the bathroom and had already purchased whatever useless shit a 13-year-old kid purchases by the time everyone else was just getting started, so I had about 10 – 15 minutes of precious alone time (spending a week in the same 30 yard vicinity as the rest of your family is a bad idea if you value your solitude) on my dad’s boat. So I sat there, hanging out alone, getting some sun, staring at the clouds, listening to the gas pump into the tank of the boat. And then the guy in the boat next to me turned on his boom box (remember those?) and Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin'” starts blaring out of the speakers. I look over to see what a selfish douche looks like and I see exactly the opposite of what I was expecting.

I see this white guy in his early thirties, fairly tall, lean and muscular, wearing only a green Speedo. His skin was tanned bronze, he had a full beard, and his hair was impossibly blown and feathered, not unlike Barry Bostwick from Megaforce (shown in the picture I’ve graciously provided to your left). So he’s hanging out in his boat, looking all Ace Hunter and shit, listening to “Thriller” on cassette. I wish I’d taken pictures or video. That shit would be killer blackmail material today. And then his buddy shows up with a case of Budweiser, looking exactly the same (same body type, same Speedos, same impossible hair) and I briefly wondered if there was a Barry Bostwick lookalike contest about to start somewhere nearby.

Then the Barry in the boat says, “Where are the bitches?” and the Barry with the Bud replies that the bitches were buying something and would be along shortly. Then the Barry in the boat says, “Hey man, is this that little spear chucker, Michael Jackson?” And the Barry with the Bud says, “Yep.” And the Barry in the boat says, “Thought so.” Then the girls showed up (and, of course, they were insanely hot) and all four of them left the marina, the sound of “Beat It” fading away as they vanished into the distance.

And that was the day I learned that totally racist rednecks could look just like hairdressers and that some women had absolutely zero fucking taste in men.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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