by Jingo the circus midget in space #99

You know, I thought things were weird back when I worked the circus. But all that shit's baby aspirin compared to what goes on here at Tinbox Acres. Even my impromptu trips to the nuthatch and jail last month were mild compared to the shenanigans my neighbors pull on a regular basis.

At least I have a regular income now, and don't have to budget that meager little Social Security check with nothing to supplement it. I had to retire several months ago, because anyone my age being shot out of a cannon is definitely a Worker's Comp security risk. I didn't even know circuses paid into Worker's Comp, but apparently they do. They just don't tell us circus employees about it.

If they did, Orrie the Elephant Trainer would have filed a claim, for sure. He got sat on by a elephant and it traumatized the elephant and damn near suffocated Orrie. If it's what it looks like, then "extricating human cranium from pachyderm rectal area" means using the Jaws of Life to pull someone's head out of an elephant's ass.>

Anyway, I didn't want to retire, but the insurance company that covered the circus' Worker's Comp coverage insisted. So I took whatever money I managed to grift over the course of my career and bought me a little trailer, and moved it here to Tinbox Acres. I wasn't too happy about the retirement thing, though. I missed the thrills of being shot out of my cannon and flying through the air, eventually coming to rest in a huge cargo net on the other side of the arena while the crowd cheered wildly.

I can't work for the circus anymore, but that doesn't mean I can't work, period. Eddie showed me the catapult and asked if I wanted to make some money by being launched with it. Of course I said yes. Eddie refurbished the catapult, and we been making all kinds of money with that thing. Doing headers into the dirt on the other side of the building and slamming facefirst into the cinderblock exterior wall on the market up the road wasn't fun, but that's the price I had to pay to fine-tune my act and start performing again.

Now that we've got the act down, Eddie and I are making good money launching me onto the roof of the Boozapalooza market up the road. Both of us are able to pay our space rent on time and everything. We don't exactly charge a fee for watching me get launched from the catapult, but we do place bets. Fatty Daddy even took up a collection and bet me I didn't have the cojones to get launched from that catapult butt nekkid.

Eddie had just picked me up and threw me onto the bench seat of his monster truck, and we were headed to Boozapalooza to grease up the catapult and start work for the day. Fatty Daddy showed up with a baseball hat brimming over with money and said, "Hey, Jingo. I got a whole hatful of cash here that says you won't do your act completely bareass."

Fatty Daddy lost the bet, and I ended up in a holding cell for indecent exposure. The cops released me and the charges were dropped, but I don't know what's worse, doing time for public nudity or being let off because nothing on you is considered big enough to expose unlawfully.

So far, we been lucky enough not to arouse the suspicions of that little guy who owns the market. Sometimes, when the automatic doors slide open, I can hear the cashier squeaking and squawking in protest. But so far he ain't run outside and shooed us away, and he ain't called the cops on us for trespassing or whatever. We been able to maintain a steady income with the catapult in the dirt lot next to Boozapalooza. If that ever changes, Eddie and I got a Plan B. We'll just move the catapult to that new market down the road, Rogelio's Quick-E-Mart. When Rogelio runs us off, we'll just move the catapult back down by the duckpond. Then we'll post a sign directing folks to the duckpond to place their bets on Jingo the Incredible Flying Circus Midget. Ain't free enterprise grand?

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