The Clown's Pies

I used to wonder why my mother never let us go into the kitchen but I wish I could unlearn the horrible truth. I was a mischievous little scamp in my younger days. I was always getting into trouble. When I wasn't hiding dad's tv remote or flicking my brother behind the ear or burning down the local orphanage, I was eating. Man did I have a thing for my mothers pies.

She would bake all day and all night, fueled by a crippling methamphetamine and fentanyl addiction. She called them mommies little speedballs. Oh how my mother loved her speedballs.

One day after a particularly rough bender, my mother said to me "I hope your hungry Johnny, I made a lot of pies," and boy was I ever! I ate pie after pie. At one point I don't think I was even using a fork any more. I was shoving pie into my mouth hand over fist.

But it was about this time I started wondering why I never saw any of the clowns she invited over leave, and she invited over a shit ton of clowns. So one day I made a decision. I was going to figure out the mystery of the missing clowns.

So when mother was crushing some brews in the back yard with the neighbors dog (she would get incredibly high and drunk and think she could talk to animals) I snuck into the kitchen. What I saw there still haunts me to this day. Piles of clowns, all over the floor. And they had all been John Wayne Bobbitt'ed! I gasped loudly and started walking backwards, the horror of the scene too much for my little mind to comprehend. I backed right into my mother.

I spun around on my heels. "So I guess you know my secret now Johnny," she said in a low voice. "I hope your hungry son, I made a lot of clown dick pies!!!"

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Credited to grghbbs 

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