The Born Again Back Story of Barnum’s Bad Girl Of The Big Top
Or
The Mad Motorcycle Diaries Of “Kid Kraut”
The Radical “Road Kill” Revolutionary
Cum Grano Salis
And ….
The Radical “Road Kill” Revolutionary
Cum Grano Salis
And ….
No apologies for incorrect spelling, bad grammar, long
seemingly endless sentences, lack of internet know how & a
crippling inability to keep things in correct chronological order in
this tall tale of two ideologically opposed cultures. A fractured
frontier space odyssey about a wild bunch of a different persuasion and
the oddball oppositional systems buster who came between them!
Mendacity not withstanding. But what the hell … it’s the thought that
counts … right?
Fortunately, my literary failings are covered due to
the fact that America lacks a language dictator like The Academia
Francoise, whose 40 high & mighty members known as “The Immortals”
determine what may or may not be accepted into the French Language. No
wonder the French are anal-retentive & prone to expelling Gypsies
from their midst! To have behavior modification stamped right on your
brain & a governor plugged to your forehead SACRE BLEU! You might as
well be one of “Pavlov’s Dogs” at “The Annual Bell Ringers
Convention.” But being liberated, in that I’m “Born Again” and come
from “The Home Of The Brave & The Land Of The Free -- I’m safe,
even from the late language guru William Safire. Not because I’m right
-- but because the old poop is dead.
As for the rest of my failings -- I’ll be damned if I’m
gonna sweat the small stuff! With all the things that went haywire,
off kilter, got derailed, and eventually went totally KAPUT in the
confusing conundrum of my disastrous life of no win circumstances --
I’ll leave such debilitating non-issues to the nitpickers of posterity.
I have better things to do now that I’ve miraculously morphed into the
THE STUPEFYING SUPER SHERO OF AN UNDERDOG WORLD! Sometimes things that
don’t make a bit of sense --- is all in the world that ultimately does
make sense.
As THE INTERNET POSTER CHILD for all whose destiny it
is to make THE QUANTUM LEAP INTO THE ABSURD, I find that losing ones
marbles is the only sane alternative to the possibility of going
completely bananas in today’s MAD MAD WORLD OF HORRENDOUS
POSSIBILITIES! A world too ridiculously morbid twisted and horrid to
take seriously. A nightmare reality no longer fit for woman &
children to live in because they are the ones who for the most part
bare the brunt of the collateral damage created by the male of the
species. (Oh boy, here we go again on one of her inane ideological
tirades against the left-brain losers of today’s Techtronic E waste world.)
A reverse sexist tradition she inherited from the “La Leche League Of Extraordinary Matriarchs‘” from whom she is unfortunately descended. The subversive shape shifters that make up the ranks of those rebellious outlaw gypsy circus queens… who since the days of the Wild & Woolley West to Gypsy Barnum’s Mad Max Millennium have been on a collision course with The Establishment. From
their point of view, the modern world is the Axis Of Evil destined to
bring mankind’s Inglorious Basterds down to their forgone doomsday
conclusion. A materialistic death culture they equate with being the
fouled & forbidden provinces of the uncircumcised philistines of
the synagogue of Satan. Certain of my Gypsy relatives spent so much
time with Jews in German concentration camps that the survivors have
taken to identifying with them even to the point of practicing
circumcision themselves. Not so with the Jews … who won’t allow them
space in the Holocaust museum despite the urgings of the famed Nazi
hunter Elli Wiesel to “do the right thing.” Evidently
getting brutalized, tortured, & exterminated together is one thing…
but being memorialized with them after the final solution is
unacceptable to their God Yahweh… who in fact is my God as well. Of
course, where I come from they call Him “The Big Top Boss In The Sky!” Fortunately for me --- HE
sympathizes with my cultural dilemma, which is an ongoing congenital
cluster fuck, in that being half-German, I have to deal with the fact
that some of my goose stepping Adolf collaborators, killed both my
Gypsy relatives & The Jews with equal military precision. That is,
they did so with the aide of a certain IBM computerized punch card
sorting system that helped to make genocide a model of Darwinian
efficiency. This is what is called American ingenuity.
Then there’s the double edge dilemma, that on Christmas
holidays when visiting my beloved Tanta Mina in the quaint and
picturesque village of Tritttau, close to Hamburg --- a certain
embittered Uncle and former high-ranking member The Third Reich, who
like IBM somehow escaped the notice of The Nuremberg Trails, appeals to
me “Das Americanish Svinehunt” for reparations. He can no longer
personally put lighted candles on the Christmas tree, as was his former
designated Holiday assignment, due to the machine gun fire of an
American GI. A brave soldier from Pittsburg Pennsylvania who won the
Purple Heart for dispossessing my Uncle Fritz of his lower extremities.
Tanta Mina always seats Uncle Fritz at the far end of the table at
family gatherings for fear he might poison me for being an enemy
combatant. Apparently, he lost some of his marbles along with his
extremities and doesn’t know the war is over.
Uncle Fritz… somewhat reminds me of my Grandfather
Nonno Nesto, the illegal immigrant who rode with Pancho Villa during
his infamous invasion of US Territory. Nonno Nesto is still hell bent
on the overthrow of The Gringo’s and it’s only the fact that he’s a
Chubby Chaser and totally obsessed with Mama Corliani’s Fabulous Flab
-- that keeps him from returning to his old haunts “South Of The
Border” where he spent his Glory days sharing Tutti Fruity ice cream
with the The Mexican Revolutionary. Despite his celebrated
anarchistic past, Nonno Nesto gets no respect.
The dressing room gossip of The Big Top rumor mill have
seen to that by their insistent insinuations that he is not the
culprit who fathered Mama Corliani’s Cowboy Cosa Nostra. In the
yackety, yack rhetoric of self-righteous ratchet jaws… in a process
known as “cutting up jackpots, ” (a disinformation grapevine that
circulates non-stop from circus to circus) the malicious midway
gossipmongers have perpetuated a vile rumor that there was another
sperm donor in the woodpile somewhere. According to various versions of
backyard mythology while in the full flush of youth when Mama Corliani
was still a svelte vision of Gypsy Beauty to behold, she apparently
“stumbled over a rock” and before she could get up --- a handsome
member of the famous Cristiani family ravished her. Like Nicholas Cage
ravished Cher by mutual consent in Moonstruck! And that supposedly
explains their equestrian prowess and matinee idol good looks.
The other version of the not so immaculate conception
of that renegade brood of miserable malcontents called The Corliani
Clan… was that she had an ongoing affair of the heart & dangerous
liaison with Buffalo Bill, the first President of The Showmen’s League
Of America to whom everyone in the outdoor amusement business gives
credit for originating the first carnival midway. That figures, given
that he rode point for the United States Government in a scam called
Manifest Destiny. The ultimate sting for which Col. William F. Cody won
The Congressional Medal Of Honor. Apparently ethnic cleansing and
hacking your way through walls of Indian flesh was a highly esteemed
virtue in that era, along with a lot of other wanton slaughter that
passed for patriotism. This ostensibly explains the Corliani’s
preoccupation with playing Cowboys & Indians & their uncanny
ability to scam the suckers in the name of Truth, Justice & The
American Way.
Then there is the inevitable Barnum connection from
whom Gypsy Barnum gets her name. During Buffalo Bills days of Wine
& Roses, albeit with him it was Whiskey & Roses, Cody was
taking in so much money at the box office that he put out a truck load
of cash for the purchase of PT Barnum’s personal railroad car… an
ornate ostentatious bachelors quarters which was decked out with all the
amenities of the Orient Express. Cody wanted to impress his Gypsy
paramour. He did and when The Prince of Humbug himself personally
delivered the plush railroad car that would have been the envy of a
Horny Hugh Heffner at any age… Barnum took the money & took Cody’s
lover as well. He wouldn’t have gotten away with it if Cody had not
been passed out cold on the love seat from his usual nightcap of a
fifth of whiskey! Phineas T took full advantage of the situation,
declaring his undying love throughout eternity, promising to make his
potential new conquest, a bigger star than Tom Thumb and The Swedish
Nightingale combined. Thus, The Prince of Humbug deftly managed to get
into Emmalina’s egg basket and forever imprint his brand of BS on his lying descendants… The Corliani Clan, for whom TRUTH is whatever your interpretation of the word “is”, is.
That’s when a once beautiful, vulnerable and impressionable Italian
Gypsy Belle found out that those awful irresistible creatures called
men, will promise you the moon, only to give you green cheese when the
thrill of the chase is over.
When true love fails, replacement theology suggests
“food” as a fulfilling alternative to a broken heart. Albeit “love” did
not bloom… M. Corliani instead blossomed into a 300 plus pound Bitch
Dominatrix who ruled her Cowboy Cosa Nostra with an iron hand by the
strength of The Spaghetti Umbilical she kept wrapped around the necks
of each and every member of her large extended clan of in-laws &
outlaws. The Magnificent Seventy Five who eventually emerged as a result
of the sexual misadventures of a wayward Gypsy Octumom & The
Fabled Fruit Of Her Loins.
In retrospect, whatever Cody paid for that
overpriced ornate & ostentatious railroad car… It was PT Barnum
who got his monies worth and his revenge as well on the Hero of the West for doing what newspaper headlines described as follows:
Buffalo Bill Out Barnums Barnum!
So goes the the scandal of Weenie Gate And All The
Matriarchs Men as divulged by the deep throats of dressing room
gossip. But it’s best to let sleeping dogs “lie”…. because whether on a
circus or carnival, trying to separate fact from fiction is like
trying to strain the peas out of split pea soup after it has already
been cooked to apocryphal perfection.
To this very day, the case of M. Corliani’s hot pants
& who got in them is one of those unsolved mysteries for which
there seems to be no satisfactory conclusion. However, the cause of all
the furor & controversy is a lot easier to explain… I think it had
something to do with the MOON.
As time passed & Big Mama Corliani’s Clan continued
to expand along with her waistline, it seems her opinion of men
continued to deteriorate at the same alarming rate she put on the
pounds.
Eventually, Big Mama Corliani came to the same conclusion as Big Mama Thornton where men were concerned. When all is said and done, they be nothing but a bunch of hound dogs snoopin round her door!
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