The Ticket-Free Freak Show

He was standing at the entrance of the grocery store, in front of one of those little tables offer free sample of some new product. He had a very robust, squarely built body. His broad shoulders, his thick arms, and his trunk like legs screamed a primeval message: this guy is built for battle.

He wore a red dress.

I mean by that a proper, certified authentic, woman’s dress. The dress was, also, well above the knee, ruthlessly revealing the rugby player physique of the guy. It was something either made to measure, or from a shop for obese old women, as the guy’s trunk was, actually, massive.

He was talking with the poor lady at the stand, desperately looking for approval, acceptance, or some form or normality. Sadly, if you are a mad guy trying to transform yourself into a cross between a freak of nature and a circus joke, the only acceptance for you should be, for your own good, in the madhouse.

Meanwhile, the poor woman was trying to talk to him in as normal as possible a way, full knowing that any indication of hilarity in her face would have spelled trouble. Poor woman.

This is now, officially, another job I could never have, or keep for long.

The guy exacted from the poor lady the tribute he was expecting, and then proceeded to walk inside the big grocery store. I could, by this time, see that he was carrying a heavy makeup. He looked the way a tranny prostitute would have looked in the Italian movie Gomorra, an extremely crude representation of the worst and most criminality ridden places – and people – in Italy.

The freak show proceeded to move on inside the store and pretend he was interested in the salads – in reality, I think, desperately trying to be noticed by the patrons of the establishment, and fancying someone was seeing him as a woman -, and I proceeded to move away from that store section, the sensation of disgust and satanic influence now clearly prevailing over the initial amusement at the ticket-free circus freak. It ended there, and I hope the guy does not cross my path again, ever.

If memory serves, what I was looking at was a walking, talking, 80% suicide probability. A tragic reality produced by the toxic combination of the madness of these people and the madness of those encouraging them.

Nowadays, people love to sacrifice at the altar of niceness and political correctness. But they don’t sacrifice lambs. They sacrifice deranged perverts, even more culpable than they are, then their madness is the fruit of a willed self-deception, espoused and fed upon until Satan gets his prize. Satan is, if he is allowed, the only winner in this game. Funnily enough, even he is said to be utterly disgusted by these people.

Go away, buddy, and try never to cross my path again, then your show is one that attracts attention (like a car crash, or a bearded woman) only for a very limited time.

I wish you salvation. But my pint is on the other outcome.