Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Everyone Hates A Clown, So Why Don't You, Bitch?...

There's two ways that you can go with clowns: They either scare the crap out of you, or you fucking hate them. I'm not really scared of clowns; I just don't ever want to meet a fat one. For some reason, the thought of a portly clown with a five o' clock shadow makes me feel all John Wayne Gacy. Believe it or not, the other half of society absolutely hates them. Let's stop this clean face on grease paint crime!

I've had a good number of strange-ass jobs in my youth, or my more youthful youth-i-ness, I should say. I think I've said it before. I've been a professional puppeteer, pizza cook, manager of a drycleaners (need a spot out of your silk shirt? You just let me know, punk.), I've written for magazines, cartoons, and papers for your high-schooler for beer money, etc. But the worst short-winded job that I've ever had, besides my two-day telemarketer job, was as a clown. You got it...a fucking clown. What was I thinking? Where was this going to take me? Did I think that eventually I'd get clown salary and clown benefits? Take winter vacations with other clowns on really big skis? I wasn't even a drunk birthday party entertainer clown...I was a shabby-ass-street-corner-sign-waving-come-to-these-new-apartments-clown. You know that series of famous black velvet clown paintings? I was sadder than those clowns.

Hold up...Jeopardy's on...

Oh my god! The President's talking instead. Damn! But wait...he's talking about mutilations, razor blade what’s? Acid?.....is he talking about drugs?...no...I'd rather have Alex Trebec quiz me about this twenty years from now than hear George Bush talk right now..." We will lead a coalition to disarm him..."

He's not talking about clowns is he?

Anyway...there I was on the first day, feeling very embarrassed but much more desperate for money. The manager of the apartment complex actually gave me the make up and some stupid balloons that hade the name of the apartment complex on them. I thought that getting the balloons printed and having me hold them in addition to the sign was completely stupid, and who could see the name of the apartment complex on the balloons as they drove by? I didn't hold the balloons. I couldn't. I had to hold the stupid arrow sign with two hands, so I tried to tie them to a skinny tree branch. One got loose automatically and a car honked. I didn't know if they we're honking at the clown with the crappy make up job and the baggy jeans on, or if they were trying to tell me that my balloon was getting away. I thought that was even stupider. I could tell that it got away. I was the one on the street corner. Only one good thing came out of the balloons. I tried to give one to a little Mexican kid who was walking with his mother, but the kid wouldn't come near me, so I had to give it to his mom. I said thanks to her as she walked away. She didn't say anything. I didn't know if she understood me or not. I didn't think that there was that much to understand. I was trying to give her brat a piece of floating rubber. I said, " thanks!" to her too, as they walked away. That pissed me off to no end. I hate when I thank people for no reason. Especially when I'm the one who should be thanked, y'dig?

The first hour was probably the worst. I didn't want to dance around, so I just kind of rocked back and forth. One out of every fifteen cars would honk. I tried to wave back, but the arrow sign would then tip down, so I stopped doing that and just kind of gave a nod that I knew the speeding cars wouldn't see.

The first "Fuck You!" that came my way surprised me. I looked around. I thought it was probably some kids. I didn't really catch a glimpse. I don't know how much time passed until somebody told me that I "Sucked!” Somebody threw change at me. It missed me and hit the curb. I was bummed, but not bummed enough not to look to see if there were any quarters in there - which there weren't. During that day I got two flip offs and one or two more "Fuck You's!" The whole day was one big, long depressing blur after that. After the car that said, "Fuck You, You Fucking Clown!", I left. I waited for the car to pass me by further because I didn't want them to see me leave. I left the balloons on the weak-ass tree because I didn't want to carry them. By that time anyway, they would've been too heavy for me to carry. All I did was drop off the stupid sign at the manager’s office that smelled like cigarettes. There was nobody inside. I checked. If there was, I was just going to drop it off around the corner anyway. I washed everything off of my face by the pool area bathroom, paranoid that the manager was going to see me. I walked home and I think I remember not being very happy, writing a couple poems about people, and drinking a lot. I could be wrong, but I think that's what I did afterward...

You know what's worse than a clown?

Being one.


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