* - Previously Recorded. NSFW Language. An attempt at the longest Ballad post. Still my favorite joke**.
** - Except for the one about the nun and the spear and revolving doors.
There was once a young boy named Timmy, and Timmy loved clowns. I mean, he seriously loved clowns. This was an obsession. It did not end at admiration from afar, or even Saturday morning clown cartoon dedication; this was a lifestyle choice, all clowns, all the time. He drove his parents crazy with incessant talk about juggling techniques, angle of seltzer water propulsion, the appropriate goofy shoe to actual foot size ratios, he even had some fairly decent insight (for a five year old, of course) into the fine line between a fun-lovingly appropriate amount of clown makeup and the specific amount of wide powder that crosses into the grotesque, the kind of clown that becomes a staple of Poltergeist cameo recurring nightmares and/or the covers of Steven King bestsellers. In short, Timmy was something of an authority, and he had a vast collection of memorabilia and various items of clown merchandise to establish his in-status in the clown-loving crowd. Timmy had clown shoes, clown socks, clown pants, a clown belt with a large, garish clown belt buckle, clown suspenders, clown shirts, clown bow ties (of the clip-on variety), a complete set of clown make-up and rubber red noses, clown hats, official Bozo the clown red semi-afro hair extensions, and of course, an assortment of multicolored handkerchief chains, water spraying flowers and a slew of juggle-able items of varying degrees of difficulty (starting at tennis balls and ending somewhere short of chainsaws). And, lest we forget, rather obnoxious underoo-style Bozo the clown underwear.
Timmy's collection did not stop at wearable or useable paraphernalia: his bedroom, too, was a clown sanctuary, homage, tribute and temple alter as well. He had a clown car framed bed with clown bed sheets, a clown mirror on his wall and several clown posters adorning the wall. His clock was an old style alarm clock that doubled as the body of a rather fat blue-clothed clown, large red slippers serving as the clock's base, two gigantic white gloved hands as ringers and a big goofy clown face as the snooze button. His toothbrushes and toothpaste (bubble gum flavored) were also clown-sponsored, as were his hair comb and the folders he carried to kindergarten. As you have probably anticipated, the bulk of Timmy's school projects were clown themed as well, and the best of them hung proudly on the refrigerator, complete with a succession of notes reading "Good job Timmy!", "I love your clowns Timmy!", "Good job, maybe next time you can draw something else!" and an increasing frequency of notes along the lines of "Nice work, Timmy, please have your mommy give me a call." Timmy's clown obsession had, in fact, had a rather large impact on the decor of the home, as his clown firetruck toys and the clown birthday plates he had eaten chocolate cake and ice cream from at his last birthday party and the clown place mats and clown-themed cups and, let's face it, a rather overwhelming laundry list of clown accoutrements gave the concept of clown an omnipresent aspect in the home. Timmy's parents, Mom and Dad, were amazingly patient and respectful of the situation, if not out loud then certainly tacitly (and, it should be noted, incorrectly) assuming that this was "just a phase."
Timmy's parents were also clearly guilty of feeding the addiction directly, as it should be clear that the average five year old is not really capable of supporting his own expensive clown habit, this being not the 1900s and child labor laws being duly in place. So they bore the brunt of the clown obsession and all of its home-altering aesthetic, but they also ultimately bore a substantial responsibility in the whole fiasco. He was five, though, and they grow up so fast, etc., so they excused themselves of the consequences of this blatantly psychologically scarring indulgence. They just wanted to see little Timmy happy, and happy he was. It was a fateful autumn evening, though, after another clown-themed day at school, when Timmy's dad, in a complete act of faith and father-beaming desire to make his child happy and/or love him, pushed this indulgence a wee bit too far.
"Timmy?"
"Yes Dad?"
"Guess where we're going tonight?!?!"
"Where, where?!!!!"
"The circus!"
"YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Timmy was ecstatic. You don't have to say "circus" twice to get a clown-obsessed boy heart rate to spike - any clown aficionado knows that the circus is the ultimate clown-appreciaton venue, blowing street-corner mimes, carnival panhandlers and birthday professional out of the water. So Timmy was psyched, pumped, amped, and everything else. He determined this a clown occasion of the highest order and pulled out the highest catalog of his clown regalia, from the inside out: clown underwear, clown pants, clown socks and shoes, clown belt with bozo-belt buckle, clown cologne, clown undershirt, official Cookie Clown Clown Workshirt, clown suspenders, blinking LED red clown nose, full Bob-Dylan-on-the-Rolling-Thunder-Revue white face makeup, the aforementioned official Bozo wig and a painted eye brow expression of plain-faced joy. Timmy was decked to the nines as he jumped in Dad's car, and he blabbered a mile a minute about clowns and juggling and the clownverse, and his Dad beamed accordingly. They parked and walked up to the venue, and Timmy could barely contain his excitement as he stood ticket clutched in hand at the turnstile. The ticket-taker, a man dressed in traditional circus ringmaster uniform, looked Timmy up and down and gave Timmy's Dad a wink.
"Hey, little boy, what's your name?"
Timmy looked up at his dad, who nodded. "Timmy!" he (Timmy) shouted, grinning from ear to ear both authentically and according to the ruby red official clown lipstick.
"Well, Timmy, do you like clowns?"
"YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"Well," the ringmaster began, "I'll tell you what. I've been waiting for a boy who really liked clowns to walk into my circus, and I can tell you're just the kid for the job. I'm gonna give you tickets for the Extra-Special Super Duper Clown Seat. It's in the front row, and it'll give you the best view of the clowns in the entire house. And - if you're a really good little clown - they might even let you participate in the show. How does that sound?"
You have to appreciate that this is the approximate equivalent of John Hinckley getting a phone call from Jodie Foster asking him where they should go for their honeymoon. Epic levels of insane joy flooded Timmy's young brain, and his mouth was agape, and he just screamed "YEAH!" and "THANK YOU!" alternatingly as he and his dad took the tickets from the ringmaster and headed through the turnstile. Timmy's Dad shook the hand of the ringmaster and watched as his clown son jumped and pumped fists, happier than he had ever been in his short life. Timmy and Dad walked down the ramp to their front row seats. Timmy bounced up and down, scarfing down hot dogs and pop corn and unleashing a continuous and thoroughly annoying to the adjacent patrons speech which rarely ever drifted from its primary thesis of "It's going to be awesome when the clowns come out."
So the lions, tigers, elephants and etc. portion of the show served as the movie ads/previews for Timmy. Blah, blah, blah, he couldn't have cared less. The clowns, supposedly "world-famous," were saved for the show's climactic close, so Timmy really had to exercise herculean levels of five year old patience in order to survive the show and not let his head explode into a million pieces with antici...pation. But time passed, and finally, a Volkswagen Bug rolled out into the center of the dirt floored arena and out poured - The Clowns.
Juggling, somersaults, magic tricks, the whole nine yards - Timmy's entire experience of the event was essentially a 20 minute scream of five year old ecstasy. The show was, as billed, fantastic, and Timmy had the time of his life. It was fantastic, Timmy was happy, Timmy's dad was happy, if there was ever a Kodak moment of the encapsulated joy of living, this was it. But the show did not end there. Suddenly, the lights in the big top went out, and a spotlight from above began swimming around the audience. The various neon colored night glow sticks and ring sold to begrudging parents kept the world visible and heightened the tension in the air: surely, something magical was about to happen. Timmy, of course, remembered that he was supposed to participate in the show, so his body was in full spasm and at its highest pee-in-pants potential as the spotlight made its circuit. The white circle made a few more rounds through the audience, but ultimately it swung forward to the front row, and settled on Timmy's heart-melting grin. The crowd cheered, and suddenly the head clown walked up to Timmy in the front row with a mic that was pumping through the overhead PA.
"Hi little boy, what's your name?"
"Timmy!" Timmy shouted, absolutely unhesitatingly.
"Well, Timmy, you look like a great clown. Tell me, what sound does a dog make?"
"Arf Arf!" The crowd laughed and gooed at his irresistibility.
"And what sound does a cow make?"
"Moo mooo!" More cheers.
"That's great, Timmy. So what sound does a donkey make?"
Timmy grinned, eating up the attention. "HEE-HAW!!!!"
The clown's grin crossed the aforementioned entertainer / nightmare-inducer line. "Well, Timmy, you must be an ass, 'cause you just said 'HEE-HAW!'"
The crowd roared with laughter; even Timmy's dad chuckled a bit. The clown spun away as Timmy stood dumbfounded. Ice picks to the liver, fire torture, fingernails pulled from their beds combined could not have equaled the pain ripping through Timmy's impressionable soul at that moment. Tears streamed; Judas had nothing on that head clown. Little Timmy immediately ran up the stairs and out of the arena, his Dad trailing behind hating to see his son in such a state of panic and hurt. Timmy ran on despite his dad's pleas, shedding clown gear as he went. Shirt, hair, nose, bowtie, suspenders, all were falling on the floor as Timmy sprinted past the chuckling ringmaster at the turnstile. Dad eventually caught up with his son, and carried his despondent child back to the car.
Their ride home was terrible and silent, and when they got back into the house Timmy charged to his bedroom and went Citizen-Kane-in-Xanadu, tearing every item of clown related material from the walls and smashing toys, toothbrushes and anything that bore a resemblance to that hideous evil traitor clown. Toys shattered, every article of bright or goofy clothing was thrown out the window. Timmy tore the clown sheets and comforter from his bed and kicked the wheels off his clown car bed frame. He continued to cry as he washed off his whiteface; he punched the clown mirror that stared back at him and saw his own menacing and tear-ravaged face in the sharded reflection. Timmy's rage eventually quieted, and exhausted, he fell in a slump on an old, pre-clown era blanket he had retrieved from his closet. As he drifted off to sleep, Timmy had only one thought that comforted him in the storm:
"Someday, I will get revenge on that clown."
* * *
So Timmy woke up the next morning with a new focus in life: the utter hatred of clowns, and the burning desire for a powerful comeback to the head clown's vicious barb. He walked the earth for the next 25 years with Buddhist-monk like concentration on his singular goal: as he learned his ABC's in grade school, algebra in middle school, or literary analysis in high school, it was all with its utility towards revenge in mind. Timmy wasn't done in high school; he went to college and majored in sociology, English and psychology, also studying several foreign languages, grasping anything that could give him an edge. Timmy still didn't think he was ready after receiving his BA, so he went to grad school and got a PhD in History, writing an academic world-shaking thesis entitled "Clowns and Nazis: A Relativist Perspective." Timmy even spent his summers as a spy at Clown College, working unbelievable hard to get at the inner workings of the clown profession, wanting to know just what dagger would spill his opponent's guts most efficiently. Timmy spent time in night clubs and improv troupes, wanting to master the art of spontaneity and be ready for action at the drop of a hat. He purchased volume upon volume of insult books, bathroom humor and various catalogs of dangerous pranks. Finally, years of study behind him, Timmy decided he was ready. This time he got in his own car and drove, another fateful autumn evening, to the very same circus.
The ringmaster at the turnstile was a bit older, but still wore his same uniform, now somewhat threadbare. As Timmy, nay, "Tim" produced his ticket, the ringmaster gave him a look over.
"Say, aren't you that same boy who loved clowns so much who came in here 25 years ago?"
"Yes, that's me."
"Well," the ringmaster chuckled. "Shall I give you your old seat?"
"Yes," Tim replied.
"Where's the clown gear?" the ringmaster asked as he ripped the ticket and pointed Tim toward his seat.
"I don't like clowns anymore."
"Oh," the ringmaster winked. "I see."
Tim walked down the ramp to his front row seat. He sat down with his popcorn nd hotdog in hand, chewing his food silently as he sat in wait. So the lions, tigers, elephants and etc. portion of the show served as the movie ads/previews for Tim. Blah, blah, blah, he couldn't have cared less. The clowns, supposedly "world-famous," were saved for the show's climactic close, so Tim really had to exercise herculean levels of thirty year old revenge-ridden patience in order to survive the show and not let his head explode into a million pieces with antici...pation. But time passed, and finally, a Volkswagen Bug rolled out into the center of the dirt floored arena and out poured - The Clowns.
Juggling, somersaults, magic tricks, the whole nine yards - Tim's entire experience was pure boredom contrasted with nervous energy. Twenty five years! Tim relived every minute of it in those twenty minutes; the late nights, the coffee marathons, all of it aimed at the scene that was unfolding before him. He recounted countless lectures, every meaning of every word that was uttered in those halls, knowing that his professors had crafted a finely tuned insult machine. He was ready for this clown, and knew that the upcoming seconds of his life would be sweet - he briefly imagined how empty the post-revenge life would be. This thought was fleeting, as a particular juggling act brought Tim back into his five year old self and he remembered the hurt, the pain, the embarrassment, the betrayal that had left a black mar in his consciousness and destroyed what would have otherwise been a very fine and normal if somewhat man-in-makeup obsessed childhood. That quick flash to the past was all Tim needed - his anger elevated; he didn't even notice the act passing as his temple throbbed. Hatred emanated every time a clown unicycled past his seat, and he merely counted the seconds until the lights would go out and his moment would begin.
The show was exactly the same as thirty years before; Tim smirked at their lack of creativity. It was fantastic. Somewhere Tim's dad sat alone, wondering why his offspring never called. But the show did not end there. Suddenly, the lights in the big top went out, and a spotlight from above began swimming around the audience. The various neon colored night glow sticks and ring sold to begrudging parents kept the world visible and heightened the tension in the air: surely, something magical was about to happen. Tim, of course, knew exactly what was about to happen, so his body was in full spasm and at its highest pee-in-pants potential as the spotlight made its circuit. The white circle made a few more rounds through the audience, but ultimately it swung forward to the front row, and settled on Tim's bone-chilling sneer. The crowd awkwardly cheered, and suddenly the head clown, thirty years older, walked up to Tim in the front row with a mic that was pumping through the overhead PA.
"Why hello sir, what's your... wait a minute, it's little Timmy from all those years ago!"
"The name's Tim." He glared.
"Well, okay then, um, Tim. Welcome back. Tell me, what sound does a dog make?"
"Arf Arf!" This was about as menacing of a dog sound as a thirty year old could make.
"And what sound does a cow make?"
"Moo mooo!" A David-Lynch atmosphere was quickly settling on this exchange.
"That's great, Timmy. So what sound does a donkey make?"
"Tim." He smiled full out evil dictator-style at his nemesis. "And donkeys say HEE-HAW!!!!"
The clown's grin crossed the aforementioned entertainer / nightmare-inducer line. "Well, Tim, you must be an ass, 'cause you just said 'HEE-HAW!'"
The crowd erupted with laughter. Tim stood up out of his seat, and an immediate hush fell; a Mike Tyson just asked for a cookie and I just ate the last one level of tension filled the room. Tim's moment had come. Years of focus coming to fruition. Palpable vindication at last. He breathed deep. He focused. The clown looked at him questioningly, a slight hint of fear showing through the makeup. Tim raised one pointed finger.
"Oh yeah? Well fuck you, clown."
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