If Satan existed.....He'd come dressed as a clown.....
Clowns. If you know me at all, you know I don't like them. They masquerade as happy, smiling, benevolent friends, while secretly they're just as pissed off and miserable as the rest of us. Hypocrites! It's my theory of clown psychology that 90% of them are fucked up somehow. And clearly, they love to pass this madness along. Who *wasn't* traumatized by the sight of a staggering, inebriated clown as a youth? Who *doesn't* have memories of some harlequin getting their big painted smile and maloderous bourbon breath wayyy too close during a trip to the circus? Personally, I find the distaste for clowns to be something of a litmus test for those I consider friends; if someone answers "Clowns? I love 'em!", I know it's hopeless. I am often pleased to find fellow clownophobes just itching to tell their own stories of traumatization and harassment at the hands of these insidious characters.
Below is a poem I wrote when I received an e-mail inviting me to "Submit an original poem to our contest and compete for over $10,000 in prize money!" Annoyed at this invasion of my privacy, I decided to fight back. I thought, "What could be more nauseating than an ode to clown sex?" I was seeking to punish the spammers, not capture a prize, but I swore that if I did come up a winner I'd use my booty to finance an even more all-out campaign against the painted posse. Unfortunately my effort went unheralded...but it lives on here...
The Sensual Clown
Smell of melting greasepaint on a summer afternoon
Your big floppy shoes kicked under the bed
Cheap hotel room, smelling of Lysol and winoshit
All fades away as we two become one.
Later on, I'll watch you wave a rubber chicken
And think about your red foam nose brushing against my bare skin.
***CLOWN POEM UPDATE--2/12/99***
Well, I didn't win the prize. Surprise! However, some months later I received a snailmail communication from a company calling itself "The Peabody Press" announcing its desire to *publish* my fabulous poem, "The Sensual Clown". (Yes, it really did say the name of the poem in the letter. It's currently framed and hanging on my wall.) This effulgent epistle gushed about the depth of emotion and shades of meaning in my "nuanced" work and asked for my "help" in getting it published. Apparently, my help consisted of sending in $39.99 for a hardbound, hand-tooled (?) Peabody Press "Poetry Review" featuring my work and those of hundreds of other geeks that had entered the contest. Honestly, if I didn't have this little reading addiction to support, I might have purchased it.....