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Being a clown is a fucking hassle. You wouldn't know
it but clowning isn't a job for the sensitive. For
one, there's no respect. The IRS is always on your ass
and why? Cause when you list "clown" as your
profession they think you're jerking em off. The
income fluctuates wildly, and the Feds think we're all
major narco kingpins. How do you explain, "Well,
summer was pretty dry, but then the county fairs
started, and school lectures about the evils of drugs,
plus Jimmy the Mouse got laid up after a monkey
accident and I covered for him. Plus there was a
cancer fund drive up at Hilltop Hospital, so I got a
weekend gig handing lollipops to chemo kids and
millionaires who want a wing named after em. So yeah,
I made zero gross in July and close to 10g in the last
two months, what can I say?"
Not that it helps but my advice to you: if you ever
become a clown, save the goddamn receipts.
That's not the half of it. The tricks are being
updated all the time. As soon as you get one routine
down, every other clown in creation is ripping your
show off, and you gotta come up with better and
better. There's no clown code of secrecy like the
magicians have, none. A clown will steal your latest
without blinking one blue lash. Right now, I'm into a
whole new shadow puppet deal, but it hasn't worked out
so well. Mr. Knucklehead, The Hitchhiker, The Talking
Doughnut, none have exactly been a hit with the
kiddies. Plus, all that's hard on the hands, and ya
gotta stay in shape.
Which brings me to another clown problem: we're all
old as hell. Take the greasepaint off and you got the
fucking AARP in floppy red shoes and polka dots.
Besides Jimmy the Mouse and that awful fucking thing
that happened with his monkey, half the clowns I know
have gotten hurt on the job. It ain't makeup yer
smelling when we come piling outta the car, it's
Icy-Burn. And you don't even want to know about the
itchy sports protector we all gotta wear. Shit, just
last week Bungo and Pantaloon nearly got killed doing
their "Chinese Greasefire Drill," and do you think
either of em have insurance? Fuck no. Christ, I heard
Pantaloon's wife had to take a second job out at
Spitzie's Diner, and Bungo says he's gonna hang up the
rubber nose if it keeps on like this, he's just lost
the heart for it.
Think I've lost the heart too. Have a show over at
Pony Land next week, about 60 rugrats jacked up on
blue Kool-Aid, and I don't have a fucking clue what
I'm gonna do. I've thought about busting out the old
"Snack Grabber" ploy, but it just doesn't feel right.
Maybe if I had a tame lion, or an old fire engine
spraying confetti everywhere, or a beautiful assistant
in sequins, it'd be different. All I know is I'm
staring down the gun of 60 blue-tongued brats, and I
got nothing except a few balloon animals to keep em
off my case. And God knows balloon caterpillars ain't
the showstoppers they used to be.
Didn't use to be like this. Back in the day, all you
had to do was show up and the kids would be on the
floor howling. Walk into the room, fall down, and
shout, "Hey kiddies, it's Boogaloo the Bamboo Panda
Man" and they'd be screaming for more. Big tips from
the moms, maybe a little something on the side as
well, it was a good gig. Now, the little shitheads
just check to see if a computer mouse if hanging out
your ass. Games, that's all they're interested in. The
whole idea of entertainment has been shot to hell.
Used to be an old man in makeup and a wig, with a
slipped disk and tax troubles was funny. Not no more,
maybe not ever again.
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