The Thing That Is Wrong about Clowns

by Harold Crick

“I’m a clown, which could be a public health role.”—Patch Adams

PAJAMAS. Suggestively large shoes. Ruffle collar (makeup-stained) nesting crumbs from last month’s show in Paramus. Ginger wig is ginger. Pale greezy corpse masque. Foam nose COLOSSAL. Grin, that grin, blood red, nasty yellow cigar coffee stained teeth showing. The Greatest Show. On. Death. And Mommy and Daddy paid money for me to see this. For you to see this.

“And a clown with one leg?”—David Sedaris


There. Is. Carbolic. Acid. Bursting. From. A. False. Flower. On. Your. My. Front.


“I've always been a clown trapped in a leading man's body.”—James Van Der Beek

Hello there, boys and girls! Give us a hug! Run from the strange man, who is laughing, always laughing, run, RUN. He is strong and smells like Pabst Blue Ribbon. And Mommy and Daddy paid good money to have Chuckles at your party. My party. Hide. HIDE. Hide till the guests are gone. Just as I start opening doors, finally knowing the one that you hide behind has pee on the floor . . .

“By far the best dressing up outfit I ever had was a wonderful pair of clown dungarees, which my Granny made.”—Kate Middleton

Now, start with a clean face. Spread a thin layer of base makeup. Pour a tablespoon of super white (fair for Auguste) onto your puff. Pop open another PBR. Ginger wig is ginger. Clowning around could just as easily mean stabbing one endlessly. Mommy and Daddy can’t, couldn’t save you. Me. CHORTLE! A tiny car has just pulled into the driveway. Waiting. For. Me. For. You.

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