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  July 3, 2000 HAPPY 3RD OF JULY 

Hey, would you look at that? That's a hard-casing fully loaded .44 magnum baby! Okay, no it's not. It's one of those fake lighters. But I can still burn you pretty bad if you hold still a second. No, no, I'm sorry. It's not even a lighter. It's just a squirtgun. But it's filled with hydroflouric acid baby! Acid! Okay, yeah, it's not acid. It's water. Tap water, really. But it's not softened! Hard water baby! Deadly, deadly, deadly! Ah hell. Okay, I never even filled it up.

Uhh...content time! We've got some content. We went to eat Chinese last night and they gave us the queerest fortune cookies. No, don't worry, we didn't eat Chinese people. They were probably Indonesian or something. But the fortune cookies were whack. Take a look at our Misfortune Cookies.

Aaaaand it's Monday! We take another stroll out back to make out with a high school hooch in the Sympathy Barn. Is it us, or does this comic define happiness?

Okay, as it's a holiday, we won't be updating tomorrow. Well, actually, we won't be updating because we'll be giggling like a little girl and putting firecrackers in people's hair. See you day after tomorrow.


Ha! The voices in our heads tell us to update everyday. So we update everyday. Then again, the voices also tell us to hate people, take drugs, and shoot our parents. And to delete Napster. Wait a minute. Dammit Metallica!

Anyway, you want content? We got another one that will keep us from ever holding public office. We tracked down the illusive Waldo (remember him?) for an exclusive look at what gets him up in the morning and keeps him on the lam.

Oh heavens to bessy, it's Friday, which means we make another visit to the Sympathy Barn. Every Monday Wednesday and Friday the aliasing demons visit and turn whatever beautifully rendered -- no, sculpted -- graphics we have produced into a nappy chunk of pixels. It's like Midas only completely different.

See you tomorrow, baby.


Joice and joice again! Today Burning Circus is very very tired and will update with only a wee little "Howdy, we're tired because we spent a long long long time mashing browser bugs and now we will rejoice with bug wine." We are only kidding of course. We do not drink bug wine. In fact, we find the tradition a little unsettling now that we are not four anymore.

Where were we going with this? Oh yes, there is content anyway. We are so good to you, our one dear reader. Oh, but you only think we're kidding. But we could not ask for a better reader. Maybe more though. Take a look at "Good, Bad, Ugly: Politics 2000".


  June 28, 2000 NAKED LAUNCH 

Well! After slaving over a hot stove all afternoon, we proudly present to you, the ignorant masses: Burning Circus Dot Com. What is this atrocious nibblet of bad taste and depravity? To call it a humor magazine is both generous and adorably stupid. We could choose to describe it simply and clearly, but as we are wont to do at the Circus, we'd rather be obscure, cryptic, and muddled, but with a real family feel. Think of it, then, as a form of comedic infanticide, wherein your sensitive inner child is the baby, and we're a 400 pound crate of Gerber Baby Food, directly overhead, traveling at terminal velocity.

Okay, now that was uncalled for. Which brings us to another point. Burning Circus is not for the weak of heart. In fact, it's not for old people, underage persons, or those of high-flying morals. Also, it's not for women or children or impressionable teens or impressionable mid-life men. Nor for the proletariat, the bourgeois, the property owners, voters, serfs, lords, vassals, the gay people, those of ugly descent, people without internal organs, canadians, people of color, people of no color, people of a dumb color, boy band members, Janet Reno, those Mexicans, our parents, our graduate-school deans of admission, people with two glass eyes, people who urinate in our pool when they're wearing our swim trunks and blame it on the pool heater, people who covet other people's wifes or asses or pension plans, people who swear in church, people who pray on the golf course, people who hide an idiot-man-child dressed like June Cleaver under the couch, or, to be perfectly safe, for anybody at all.

That said, keep your hands and arms inside your pants at all times and read away, dear reader, read away.