South Park Self

I have heard the chimes at midnight*

Lo these many moons if not many summers ago, I once posted about the House of Clocks, which appears to be an exercise in randomly bizarre creation of the more entertaining and off-the-wall sort. I stumbled over it again the other day, and was rather horribly struck by the sudden applicability of one particular exhibit, namely The Necromoniclock. Its provenance is appealing, chronicling the ability of the clock to jump instantly between locations: "Appearing on a sales-receipt at a pawnshop in Whiteville, North Carolina, the clock quickly jumps to a crude painting on a hide-drum in the Himalayas made only a week later. From there, the clock jumps to a yearbook picture in Cleveland, Ohio. A man raising pigeons on a rooftop in London gave an eyewitness account of the clock "hoverin', malicious-like" only two hours after the before-mentioned yearbook picture was reportedly taken."

This is all very well, but what is causing me active concern is the photograph.

That's my clock, people. The one I inherited from my dad, and which sits on my piano, and which has just struck nine to tell me I'm an hour and ten minutes late for my 10pm bedtime.

The House of Clocks cautions that "This clock seems to cut a swath of destruction everywhere it goes. Those who have spent time in its direct vicinity have complained of nosebleeds, murderous impulses, and an uncontrollable desire for polyester clothing. Large crowds of people have been driven to riot by its raucous chime. From botched plastic surgery to cattle mutilation (and in some cases both), from earthquakes to fallen souffles, doom and despair mark the passing of this clock in all its many incarnations."

This is, in fact, curiously reassuring. Now when I am hit by various incarnations of technojinx, ill health, uncaring academia or other crises, I have something to blame.

* if my clock strikes twelve it's actually five to two. In retrospect, this should have been a warning.
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It's on the piano in the living room, within spitting distance of the kitchen. But my last soufflé didn't actually flop. Strange.

I do, however, have to cop to the murderous impulses.
The swath of destruction wherever it goes could be convenient, too. Was the clock pic on the web somewhere where it could be yoinked, or is its appearance on this website a sign of its innate nefariousness?