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Notice from the department of Rancid And Idiotic Sexual Antics:

The following is a CESSPIT-class infohazard, containing Consensual Eldritch Sexual Squickercourse Poor In Taste and is not to be read by anyone at work, anyone at home from work, or anyone. (But mainly anyone at work.)

The sound of feathers on a computer keyboard had been silent for two hours.

A sudden scream jolted Paddy the Pelican out of his slumber in the office chair.

His brain sloshed around in his skull. If the migraine were any indication, Paddy's internal organs were all beanbag chairs half-filled with stagnant water and mosquito eggs.

Why the hell am I awake?

Paddy checked the corners of his eyes. It wasn't alcohol withdrawal this time. That was one silver lining.

The last thing I need to see is another pink elephant. "Daaah, loogit meee Paddy, I was in Dumbo! You heard that right, kiddo, my movie's name is a synonym of 'Dipshit' and 'Piss-for-Brains' but I'm still a timeless classic for some reason! I mean, it's not like the sequence I was in added anything to the plot, but oh well! I'm still a better cartoon character than you by default because I'm in DiSnEy why aren't you in dIsNeY how dAaAaAaRe you not be in FUCKING DiSNeY!!"

The thoughts of his victorious competition built up, swelling to a crescendo. He nearly belted out a hearty "Reap what you sow!" to banish the invisible demons.

But he only got as far a "RE — " before he remembered what he was doing prior to his nap.

That was enough to force a calmer state of mind, if only for safety. He had dozed off a library computer lab. This was the one suburban library in Illinois from which he hadn't been banned for life.

His old computer was still at Kenny Crow's place. God knows what Kenny Crow was doing now, but that restraining order was airtight. But Paddy needed a computer he could use for free. So, as little as he respected laws and regulations anymore, he needed libraries.

But he checked his screen — and he still hadn't made any headway. Page 175 of Google's results for "How to kill a cartoon pelican" was nothing but more irrelevance.

He sighed deeply. His breath scraped against the red blotches in his throat — last night's spree of screaming at children at the Megabus terminal had done a number on his already raspy windpipe.

Wasn't my fault. That one kid kept watching Blippi on his iPad. I mean, he knew a REAL children's entertainment star was there, so he must have intentionally watched something else to assert dominance. Fucking sociopath.

"Howdy, kiddies, it's your favorite 40-year-old Peter Pan syndrome poster boy named after the sound of raspberry jam sputtering out a swollen urethra all 'blipppipiiipipiiibblblblil' 'n' shit! WHOLESOME, AIN'T IT?! Oh, look there's a pelican wronged by society! I'm gonna teach you how to RUB ME IN HIS FUCKING FACE to assert dominance!"

He chuckled bitterly at the thought.

Joke's on him. No one's gonna remember Blippi in five years.

Meanwhile, I'll be here forever. No matter how much I want it all to stop

…the worst that can ever happen to me is stars circling around the head again.

His forehead drooped into his wings.

If I don't think of some way to break free, I might even still be here when the Sun burns out.

I guess it's kind of comforting, in its own fucked-up way. I still have a chance to make it big.

A puddle of silent tears grew around the keyboard, magnifying every jagged stripe of the faux wood desk.

"Howdy, boys and girls! Welcome to the grand re-opening of the Paddy the Pelican show! Paddy the Pelican is filmed in front of a live studio audience of assorted bits of frozen space dust cut into the shape of humans. And now, to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the heat death of the universe, here's the pelican of the hour himself — "

A second voice derailed Paddy's train of thought from behind. It was a familiar, slithering tone, something that always had to dig its way out of its respective throat with a bloody pickaxe: "The Borzoi convention is that-a-way, Longface McKenzie."

Only then did it reoccur to the pelican that he was awoken by a scream. He turned around.

In doing so, he caught a gruesome panorama along the way.

There were twenty people on that floor of the library when Paddy came in. All twenty of them had been bound together in a spherical wad of mutilated corpses.

Everyone's dead.

Paddy clenched his teeth.

Once again, I'm left out of the party. Bastards.

But more importantly, his eyes met with the visitor's — a familiar and colorful chap in greasepaint and bloodstains. He lay draped across the opposite desk like a cabaret signer on a grand piano, balancing a heavily-used meat cleaver on one finger.

"Fuck off, Bobble," grumbled the pelican.

"Begorrah, Padraig, but it's a clown's number one job to cheer people up!" He indicated the corpse-ball. "Believe it or not, spreading chaos is just a side gig."

Paddy grumbled, kneading his temples.

"All right, I'll bite," said the seabird. "What did you do this time?"

"So glad you asked! See, I'm trying to make the world's biggest rubber band ball. Only trouble is, I ran out of rubber bands."

Paddy forced a smile. "How very clever of you. Great job. Now, if you didn't bring either something that can kill me or get me drunk, get the fuck out of — "

But Bobble's voice interrupted him from behind the computer. Paddy turned around, and he was perched on top of the monitor like a vulture on a cactus.

"Buuut, more importantly, I saw that you were here. I figured the last thing the two of us needed was an audience."

"The last thing you need, maybe." Paddy's glare was bitter enough to be smelled from a mile away. "Your ass is still in syndication."

But Bobble was too busy staring upside-down at his Google search results. A light bulb appeared over the clown's head.

"Have you tried that thing from Who Framed Roger Rabbit?"

"Why no, I have NOT tried any magical bullshit that doesn't exist, why do you ask?!"

"What's so magical, Paddsy? Have you even watched the movie? They even listed what the Dip is made of: acetone, turpentine, and benzene. Transparency!"

"Bobble, you dumb fuck, I drank all three of those last Tuesday just to feel something."

"Oh?" Bobble's ears perked up with a glockenspiel note. "And what did it make you feel?"

"Myself. In public."

Bobble cackled. He fell off the monitor, wriggling about on the floor in fits of uncontrollable laughter.

Paddy gripped the arms of his chair until it shook.

"OH, GREAT! So you came just to laugh at me! Lemme guess, this is going on your stupid-ass show, too?! 'Bobble Harasses a Seabird!' SLOW CLAP! DAYTIME FUCKING EMMY!"

"Now, hold on!" The clown stood up. "You get mad when people don't laugh at your jokes — but now that you've said something funny, I don't get to laugh?"

"I'm well aware that my life is a bad joke, fuck you very much."

Pouting, he booped the tip of Paddy's beak. "Not that, silly! I mean the 'myself in public' bit. Maybe you're a late bloomer, but once you get off that XXXL runway, you'll make it in the biz for realsies! I guarantee it, young grasshopper."

The pelican hung his head low. Dangling a glimmer of hope like that in front of him was his weakness.

"I appreciate it, Bobble. I really do. But I'm tired of begging the market to acknowledge my existence. Even if I did get a little victory here and there, when would I ever be truly satisfied? An eternity of struggling to see my dream is just… eternal damnation with better seasoning."

"Hmm…" Bobble fell back onto a nearby chair just like Paddy's. He spun around, pressing his fingers against his chin in deep thought.

But suddenly, after thirteen complete revolutions, he stopped short.

"I suppose you could look at it that way," said Bobble.

Paddy nodded, smiling sadly.

"Listen, Paddy. Anything looks like crap if you're seeing it with bad lighting. A beautiful mountain? That's a mountain-sized pile of crap. A cute little songbird? Someone left a piece of crap on a tree branch. A delightful little baby boy? That's a pile of crap that screams when you stick a fork in it. You just gotta take off your crap-o-vision glasses."

"So there's a there a silver lining to sucking for eternity?"

"Absolutely!" Bobble pointed at himself with both thumbs. "Believe it or not, you're not the only one who's stuck here forever. And I used to think the same thing you did. Everyone's unsolicited advice sounded like mockery."

"And yet, here you are, giving me unsolicited advice."

"Absolutely! Because I found the exit to our little conundrum years ago. And you're about to find it, too."

Paddy grumbled. "Lemme guess: 'one must imagine Sisyphus happy.'"

"Excuse me?! Do I look like an investment banker to you?"

Bobble checked his outfit, suddenly remembering he was dressed like a clown.

"…don't answer that. Anyway, Paddleball, here are your options. The first path: do the same thing for eternity and expect different results. The second path: traipse up to the Global Occult Coalition and tell 'em to do their worst. If anyone can kill you, it's them."

Paddy gasped.

"…hot diggety fuck, Bobble, that's it! The second they see an anomalous pelican on their doorstep — hell, they probably have the REAL recipe for the Dip!"

He stood up. With a flask full of turpentine, he toasted the Clown.

"Bobble, you are a gentleclown and a scholar. Thanks to you, freedom from this endless cycle will soon be —"


" — mine?"

Before he could make heads or tails of it, Paddy was laid out against a nearby table. Bobble held him down against it with a gentle but firm grip around his neck.

The clown waggled his eyebrows.

Paddy wasn't sure what it was that he was feeling — he thought it was fear at first. But he couldn't put his finger on anything to dread. Death was impossible, and physical or emotional pain was nothing compared to years of failure.

But he felt the pinion of every feather planted in his skin. They all stood to attention. The pelican's head grew light. His throat-pouch quivered like a windsock in a spring breeze.

He hadn't felt like this since the last mating dance with his ex-wife1. But that single, loveless night was formulaic. This was… comforting, almost?

Releasing Paddy from his grip, Bobble slapped his palms together. He slowly opened them up in an arch, forming a glittering rainbow that said "THIRD PATH" in forest-green letters. As the rainbow faded, the letters turned into hummingbirds and fluttered away.

"And… what's the third path?" said Paddy, through a shivering windpipe.

Bobble spoke in a huskier, more acidic tone: "Paddy, we are not trapped here. Here is trapped with us. We are immortal. Immovable. Remember every night you spent in jail after one of your benders? How did you get out?"

"A scene transition?"

Bobble nodded slowly. "Reality. Morality. Mortality. Lesser folk are burdened by such things. But us?"

A french beret suddenly replaced Bobble's hat. A paint palette appeared in one hand and a brush in the other. The brush, covered in pink paint, slowly meandered toward Paddy's crotch.

"This is our world, Paddy — not theirs. I think we should rub it in their faces for a change. Indulge in the prizes of our true potential, the things that humanity thinks they can keep us from doing — but never can. And the best place to start would be, say… doing hideously inappropriate things in a library."

The brush stopped within half a centimeter of a tuft of Paddy's feathers between his legs. The clown glanced up at Paddy's eye level with a wry smile.

"What do you say, Mr. the Pelican?"

Paddy clenched his fists. He broke into a cold sweat.

"Well, this ain't familiar territory to me, Bobble… but…"

He nodded.

"…you'd make a damn fine tour guide. Lead on."

The paint was cold against Paddy's crotch. Three rapid strokes sent wild shocks to his brain. Whatever design Bobble left there had dried and crusted on contact — but a new and unfamiliar stream of warm fluids built up from within.

"Have you ever had a pelicussy?" asked Bobble.

Paddy whimpered something to the effect of "can't say I have."

"Well, ya do now!"

One vigorous application of Jazz Hands later, Bobble's fingertips metamorphosed into ten tiny vibrators. Bobble extended all seven of his prehensile tongues (one for every color of the rainbow) and gargled as he slathered clown juice all over the tips. Each vibrator head shimmied in place with a mist of pink, viscous liquid clown.

(You could tell it was pure and unfiltered clown juice rather than distilled polyclownate because of the white and brown splotches of atrophied dingleberry-flavored adipose tissue generated from the natural internal shedding process of Bobble's giggle gland.)

All ten shivering fingers converged on Paddy's pelicussy like the jaws of a giant clam. Literal fire shout out of Paddy's cloaca as Bobble kneaded his newfound labia like pizza dough. All the while, the septatongue pried its way through the spongy flaps.

Paddy's eyes went to either wall. The halls of the library shook with echoing spurts of nasal, gravelly pelican shrieks. He hyperventilated from the greatest rush he had ever felt in his overlong existence. His supple chin-pouch ballooned and deflated over and over. The inky veins under the pouch-skin were exposed.

By then, Bobble's seven-prongued tongue had thoroughly immersed itself in Paddy's vaginal labyrinth. The seven tips wound through the passageways, fighting little random-encounter enemies (mostly liches and pelicussy elementals) that stood in their path.

The pelican knew what the unironically pretty nice version of being skewered by barbed wire felt like.

But the bulbous pouch underneath his bill hadn't gone unnoticed. With his mouth still firmly planted in Paddy's snatch, Bobble's lower body made little fishing-reel noises as it corkscrewed over, until the crotch of his oversized trousers were firmly planted in Paddy's face.

Paddy took in the intoxicating scent of clown taint essential oil, which is proven to enhance cognitive abilities and kill up to 5,000 mice with one eighth of a teaspoon.

The pelican unsheathed the teeth that he sometimes has due to inconsistent character design.

A thick forest of tangled, barbed, fire-red clown pubes engulfed Paddy's eyes, blocking out every source of light but the light of being really fucking horny.

Hundreds of Bobble's sentient crab lice, dangling on the ends of each and every fetid strand in their little Ewok-ish houses. They waved with their little crab claws and sung little folk-songs. The littlest crab lice danced around a maypole bulging out of Bobble's infected hemorrhoid at the southern tip of his gasping, cavernous, royal-purple sphincter. The maypole was wrapped in ribbons in record time. The crab lice cheered, for the plaint unto the Tongue God in the sky had summoned at last a tongue for to fill their village's anus. Their crops would be watered for another year, and the feast would be plentiful! They wouldn't need Crab Louse Christopher Lee to stick anyone in the Wicker Louse this year.

"Huzzah, huzzah!" cheered the Clowncrabs. "Mother Butthole and Father Prostate shall receive thy tongue serenely, as is their duty!"

Paddy's brain cells coalesced into a single supercell that was shaped like the phrase "YES, DADDY."

And then, using a sound effect asset shamelessly pirated from Super Mario World for Yoshi's tongue, Paddy shot out his rigid and sandpapery pelitongue into the dense anal thicket, weaving through several microbial area codes' worth of nondescript pubic filth toward the dark shape in the horizon.

With a mighty SQUANGPSCH, because that's literally the sound it made, the tongue probed a full two and a half meters into the Bobble Butt.

Dust that had gathered from a full two decades of procrastinated bathing peppered Paddy's lower tongue. The scent of wild mushrooms, vinegar, and cotton candy pumped into the poor pelican's nostrils — no, not poor! This was the heaven he had sought for so long! This was leagues better than outperforming a literal goddamn Disney movie.

What a fool our pelican had been — searching for what was not his to own, when the answer had been his tongue up a clown's butt the whole time!

As for how the rest of Paddy's tongue had felt — for one thing, the heat of Bobble's non-euclidean ass dimension boiled and seared his taste buds. For another, Bobble had just had for dinner 60 pounds of CHIPOTLE'S NEWEST PROTEIN, ADOBO CHICKEN! NOW HERE FOR A LIMITED TIME! BRING THE TASTE OF MEXICAN FARMS OR SOMETHING DIRECT TO YOUR MOUTH NOW! HURRY BEFORE IT'S GONE! USE THE CODE "CLOWNSEX" FOR 0% OFF YOUR NEXT ORDER ON THE CHIPOTLE APP! BUY IT RIGHT THE FUCK NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL EAT YOUR FUCKING DOG, LINDA!

Anyway, Paddy's tongue had been burnt out of his mouth.

A geyser of blood gushed from Paddy's mouth. But the blood wasn't blood. It was rainbows. No one could say why, but judging by the foot-high buildup of gray, slimy pelicum that had now flooded the computer lab, it was probably the power of love.

Bobble's greasepainted ass shimmied and rippled with ecstasy.

"That wasn't just whistlin' Dixie, ol' buddy ol' pal!" wailed Bobble. "You're a gotdang natural at clown-pleasery! I think someone's earned a total loss of their pouch virginity."

At that very moment, Bobble's lower body turned a complete 180 degrees. His waist broke open from the force of his movement. Pink and purple clown viscera scattered — but fear not, my child, for his skin and body regenerated faster than even 682 himself!

And lo, Paddy became the first to have laid his eyes upon Squeaky Wheels MacKenzie and lived. That's the name of Bobble's two-meter-long greasepainted thundercock. Across the side of his feculant uncut murderdick was a tattoo of Ronald Reagan giving a thumbs-up with a little speech balloon that said "BORN 2 CUM, FORCED 2 CLOWN."

Bobble spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. He wrapped his dick in Paddy's supple pouch-flap and turned with a jerk. And placing a finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, he thrust his bobblings-pole into the folded pouch like it were the big honkin' boobers of God Himself.

Microscopic firemen sprang from Bobble's peen-pores. Gathering their hoses, they sprayed WD-40 all over the walls of the pouch.

Paddy yodeled the Romanian national anthem in glee. The boiling-hot cock-o'-the-bobblin's sawing against his leathery, veiny, titlike pouch made him feel like how Marie Antoinette must have felt when she was sexually practicing being guillotined.

Suddenly, the hard-working leopard gecko who lived in Bobble's scrotum saw that the pressure gauge had reached its maximum. It was time at last to turn the cum-valve, and so he did.

"Floreat Etona!"2 shrieked Bobble, letting loose 500 cubic liters of intensely radioactive slurry that tasted vaguely of Panera Bread mac & cheese (Do not ask me how I know this.)

"REAP WHATCHA SOW, DADDY!" screamed Paddy.

But one might ask: how could he talk? His tongue had detached. And sit down, Susan, your answer's coming right up.

His tongue had pulled an entire goddamn starfish and regenerated. But the regeneration was too intense — a second Paddy, fused with the lower tongue of the first, had been spawned.

"GAH AH AWH AH AGH," said Paddy II, for he was fused at the tongue with Paddy I and couldn't say much.

Both Paddies locked their bills onto one another, gagging as they were locked in a permanent makeout. Paddy's eyeballs melted out of his head into white cumlike liquids, for this was the truest form of happiness.

They both glanced at Bobble and rubbed their pelicussies together into a tight and sopping little tunnel for his Bobble the Cock, it sounded like squinch squinch squinch squinch and they gave him little come hither eyes and shit (Paddy's eyes also regenerated) and and uh Bobble's cock slowly came back to full mast and the American flag flew in the middle of his cock because this is an abject tragedy and nothing is okay anymore and "ZOO WEE MAMA!" screamed Bobble as he squadoinkied his hideous and eternal peepee into the Tunnel of Squinch and it went QUAAANPH QUAAAANPH and and and ten million two-inch-long fuckdragons (Draconis fuckiwuckinus) flew out of Bobble's nipples and shoved their disproportionately huge cocks into Bobble's ears and [END OF SIMULATION.]

Active pulse confirmed.

Vital signs confirmed.

Loading 0401briefing.txt…

Good afternoon, [your name here.]

On behalf of the SCP Foundation O5 Council, allow me to offer my personal congratulations for passing the Naismith-Derkins Memetic Resilience test.

Neutralizing the danger posed by coulrophilia is currently a Delta-level priority to the Foundation. Had this been an actual anecdote of clown sex rather than a hypothetical account, you would have been accompanied by armed personnel to assist with the threat.

Now that you have been made aware of this existential threat, you will now be directed to the true document for SCP-001.

SCP-001 - Codename: Aprillipäivä

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