I also added to my Tiki collection with these little fellows from Doug Horne.
Thanks to the lovely folk at Outré Gallery for bringing to Oz such a visual feast in fairly reasonably priced packages.
Here's my own take on the whole Tiki thing ... yes, it does look like a rather angry penis.
Shane’s life was at a crossroads. Both ways led to a dead end.
It was always this way. His childhood was so dull there were never any Kodak moments. His adolescence was mainly consumed by masturbation and acne. Then came his adulthood – full of masturbation and acne-scars.
Shane was a man of habit. On a usual evening, after work, he would wander down to the local pub for just two watered down Sherries.
Alas, this was not a usual day, because just before the entry to his local, stood a hitherto non-existent, ornate door that was slightly ajar.
Shane had walked this route thousands of times and was sure that he had never seen it before. His interest aroused, he slowly opened the mysterious door and walked down some creaky steps. As he walked, the volume of sounds from below increased.
Finally reaching the bottom of the staircase, Shane found himself standing by a long bar. He was surrounded by people who were dressed up as if they were clowns in a circus. Oversized shoes and red noses were de rigueur.
“Like a carnival,” thought our hapless protagonist. “What is this place?”
“Drink you fool,” bellowed a rotund man. On his naked, pink body were a few discreetly adhered pink pompoms. His face was covered in poorly applied clown make-up; as he talked puffs of white dust shot from the corner of his lips, and chunks of make-up broke away, revealing yet more underneath.
The corpulent clown turned toward Shane and said, “Want to see a trick?”
Shane nodded in assent.
From under a pompom, the clown pulled out his make-up covered penis. As he pulled it out, it kept unraveling like an endless multi-coloured ribbon.
Repulsed as Shane was by the procession of the clown’s phallic magic trick, he was nonetheless compelled to watch as the fleshy mound grew and grew, consuming not only its owner but also the whole eastern corner of the bar.
“Show-off,” stated an attractive female clown whose clown’s suit snugly fit her trim clown body. She was different to the other clowns. Her painted face was smoother, almost natural and glowing. As she gracefully puffed on a cigar, her fuzzy green hair seductively bobbed to the rhythm of her inhalations and exhalations.
“Who are you?” Shane stuttered.
“I’m Queen of the Clowns. Welcome to my circus.”
To verify her royalty, the Queen rummaged in the left nostril of her bulbous red nose with her finger and thumb. She began to pull at something. There was a glint of gold. She pulled and pulled, revealing more bullion. With both hands she pulled harder revealing a long strand of gold. With a loud ‘boing’ it popped into the shape of a crown, encrusted with large ruby clown noses.
Proudly she popped it onto her head. With a flick of her hand, a nose encrusted scepter appeared. With a wiggle of her body an elaborate, multi-coloured, nose-motifed robe wrapped around her.
She was the Queen of Clowns, and Shane was her willing subject.
“Come with me,” she beckoned with her large puffy, purple-gloved clown hands. With her beauty and inexplicable clown coercion she drew him towards a dark corner of the cavernous bar. She pointed towards a hole in the wall down near the floor. With his head sunk into several centimeters of age-old, alcohol-soaked grime, he peered through the looking hole.
Shane saw himself leading an army of clowns, all helmeted with camouflaged clown hair, green silk army fatigues and large red clown army issued boots.
The artillery consisted of large clowns with buckets; the contents of which were a mystery.
The signal corps wore large pants with phones connected to a hidden source within their pockets. Hundreds of them emerged from one small, garishly painted car.
The air force clowns wore blue silk fatigues, extended their arms out and made plane noises as they whizzed around the army’s perimeter.
There Shane stood on the hill. One puffy-gloved hand placed steadfastly on his heart, reminiscent of that other amusingly attired master of strategy. He was the general of Clown Queen’s army. He was, at last, somebody.
Across from the Clown’s army loomed their mortal enemy – the Ring Leader. An evil, but well dressed man, who the clowns rebelled against long ago. With his whip and a sneer he forced his minion to attack.
First the poodles on unicycles, hungry for clown blood, furiously pumped at their pedals.
Then the lions roared at the scent of clown blood.
Trapeze artists, which were all forced to watch anti-clown videos produced by the Ringmaster’s propaganda department, swung into action.
Finally, the human-cannonballs rained death on their clown foes.
The clown troops bravely charged the Ringmaster’s formidable henchmen. However, their cream pies, confetti and expanding phalli were no match against the Ringmaster’s brute force.
Dead clowns littered the battlefield.
That was the day laughter died.
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Big Fat Robot with victim
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