Saturday, 13 November 2010

I'm not really scared of clowns.

Typical clown makeup
No, I certainly don't have a phobia. But I'm distrustful of them, certainly. Maybe it's like being racist, I don't care. But then again, I do hate black people as well.
 No, not really.

Anyway, back to the clowns. I'm not terrified by them, but the make-up, the giant shoes, the over-sized trousers. What have they got to hide? Why are their faces masked and their body sizes hidden? The reason was obvious, of course. Criminals. A massive network of criminals.

 It all started in a field, as many things do. The lives of field-based animals, for instance, usually start in fields. But I wasn't emerging from a sheep's vagina, not this weekend. No, I was here with my house, which had recently been deposited in a deluge of watery proportions. Some cows had talked to me, but offered no real solutions to my predicament - how to get my house back to its original location. Kevin, the talking snail, had disappeared two days ago. I think a hawk may have grabbed him, but that's another story. But I couldn't stay in a field, it would confuse the postman.

 So, I began to look into solutions to the problem. My electricity, obviously, was out, and I seemed to have lost my wallet in the excitement, so calling and paying for help were out of the question. It was then, seeming like a miracle, that a car pulled up nearby.It was tiny, a two-seater, I would have estimated. Swinging open the door, the occupant slowly unfolded. A clown, over 6 foot, slowly stretching out his body, his knees first stretching, his body rising to a straightness of rake-like nature, standing at 90-degree angle to the earth.
 He straightened a bow-tie, water spraying sadly from the middle, and patted at an over-sized wig. A briefcase was withdrawn from his trouser-line, springing open in his hand, spraying custard over his shoes. Sadly, he picked up papers and placed them back in the case, looking down to check they were in place. Ominously, unavoidably, a spring rose up, striking like a tiger, catapulting a pie into his face. He wiped the pie from his giant glasses and approached me.

 "Good-day Sir" He began, pausing to squeak his nose with a silent acceptance. "You look like you need some help."
 I looked at him. He bore a look of sad dejection, his fate accepted, his slapstick life unavoidable.
 "Yea." I replied. "But I've got no money. What can you do anyway?"
He smiled. Not a real smile, of course, that part of his life was long over. A fake smile, hastily painted onto his face with makeup.
 "It is no problem. But one day, I will come to you. And I will ask you a favour."

With that, he clicked his fingers. From his car, clown after clown began to emerge. Giant clowns, their clothes stretched too tightly over their barrel-chests and bulging arms. They surrounded my house, lifting it from the base, and crab-walking East, towards my home. The Clown Don led me to his car, offering me a seat beside his driver, folding himself into a tiny boot I couldn't fit a hamster in.

We drove home. I now owed a debt to the Clown Mafia, of course, but no worries. I'm sure there won't be any repercussions...
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Image via Wikipedia

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