TABOO HALLOWEEN CLOWN SLUT EATING DICK
The Taboo Halloween Clown Slut Eating Dick: A Cringe-Tastic Fable
Once upon a time, in a quaint little town filled with cutesy Halloween decor and Fake Blood® “Blood” stain, there lived a naughty little clown, let’s call her Krystle. Krystle was no ordinary clown. No, no, no. By day, she’d dress in frilly dresses and clown makeup, capping off the look with oversized red noses and garish face paint. She’d walk around town, custody of her gaggle of giggling children, momentarily amused by her antics. By night – oh, by night, that was a whole different bag of dirty potatoes.
As the sun sank below the sleepy town’s rooftops, Krystle transformed. Off came the stuffed bow tie, out went the twirly proudly polka-dotted socks. In their place, an unholy sartorial matrimony of naughty nurse, skintight latex and far too many sequins, all set adrift in a murky sea of tacky fake blood. This was Krystle’s “Look,” and she wore it with all the sartorial finesse of a dumpster fire in a conniving ill-fitting tutu.
Her ensembles, an affront to modesty and taste, were a sight to behold. One could only imagine the garish sight of her out on the town, the flimsy latex stretched impossibly tight, the not-so-subtle glistening of the “blood” smeared artlessly across her bodice – a macabre, passé take on Burger King’s “Have It Your Way” slogan, which Krystle seemed to interpret as “Drizzle It On Indiscriminately. Let It Stain.”
Krystle’s nights were long, and oh-so-promiscuous. She’d cruise the town’s seedy bars and beer joints, playing a role more wholesome-waste-disposal than wholesome-party-girl. She’d sidle up to couples, group of friends, random strangers – anyone who seemed all too happy to engage in the verbal equivalent of grope-fest with a strangers. Undeterred by anything resembling ‘decorum’ or ‘modesty’, she’d plant her ample derriere on their laps, offering crude innuendos and lurid propositions to one and all – “Hey dude, you got a big red nose for Halloween?” being a surprisingly popular pick.
Which brings us to her star turn: the eponymous “Halloween Slut Eats Dick.” We’d always liked Krystle for being brutally uncouth and unapologetically brash. But against the twin backdrops of her customary crime-scene kabuki makeup and the glaring fluorescent bar light, her filthy antics take on a whole other level of sordid, trashy exploitation. Licking lips previously referred to as her ‘Hollywood Smile’ – which are hard rainbow strips – the camera has captured Krystle in a moment of depraved lust, eyes blazing with a furnace-like burning inferno of thirst. This is a woman who wants to experience the forbidden fruit of large, veiny, vascular man-meat. And she wants it… now.
Cue footlong sausage, inserted haphazardly and unsheathed into her eager, open maw in a move that’s both crass and cringeworthy. Her eyes sparkle with mettle, as her head bobs with lonely, rhythmic abandon. Lost in the pleasure of pandering to the camera’s gaze – and, presumably, her own – she goes pterodactyl on said sausage. Bits of sausage, latent in the very air, stink with a reek of sloppy, careless oral sex. The camera lingers lewdly, forcing you to cop an impromptu eyeful of Krystle’s pink puckered nob forbade and as she makes out with the long thing – a sight as forgettable as it is unsettling, like a badly invented Polaroid from a forgotten porn alleyway.
In the freshly-minted dawn, after an endless of carnival of carnal depravities and depravity, you’re left with a bitter aftertaste – the lingering, question: what is it about a cartoon clown hawking her wares on a public street that is so endlessly titillating? Really, the more you think about it, the answer feels oh-so-tritely, oh-so-Can’t-Not-Think-About-Them: a walking kuromoji of every sad, lonely holy shit.
We get it, Krystle. You came to scandalize – and scandalize you did. The town recovering from the assisted herbal licentiousness of the town’s Babadook-loving impromptu boom in caramel vodka shots. Even Disney can’t sanitize that memory. Enough already: This is one clown car act we’d rather not revisit.
