What goes through the mind of a moderately disturbed clown? Does he dream? Does he hope? This is the wonderful, personal account of the daily travails of an actual clown, none other than Cakey the Clown. You might have heard of him, but have you ever peered into the shimmering cortex of his soul? Now is your chance.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Spent the last eighteen hours hiding in a bathroom stall, eating mints and laughing. The door was stuck, and my hands were full of soft-boiled eggs, so I couldn't bother to unstick the door. I finally got out of the stall when a janitor happened by and opened the door. I put the eggs in his nostril place and slithered home. *hiss*
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Delicious horse moon
Sometimes I just get so bored, what with having no job or travelling circus to perform in these days. I put in an application to teach at the Cranston Clown College, but they rejected my application on the grounds of "moral instability" and "philosophical unclarity" as well as "sending Ziploc bags full of zebra feces to random college professors," whatever all of that means.
I went to the park this morning to feed the pigeons. Some people screamed and hid in the shrubbery. As it turns out, pigeons don't eat hippopatamus eyeballs, but how could I know that until I tried? Life is about exploration and learning, but so much of that learning engenders police activity.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Delicious moon horse
I went to the mall today. I purchase a nice hamburger and french fries. I dipped the french fries in ketchup and ate them one by one, oh the delicious flavors! Then I took the hamburger and crammed it in the pants on a random old man. He cried and ran in a circle for a while. I was hoping his hiney would eat the hamburger, but instead he just called the police on me. So I went home and took a nap. Oh the sacred life of a clown.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Where did I go?
Where am I? The last thing I remember, something bright and silvery hard hit me in the side of the head. Then my memories began to leak out of my brain, dripping from my mouth like waxy pellets of sky oil. I tried to grab them as they fell, but they sluiced through my fingers and splattered on the ground--oh my memories. There went the memory of Touches eating a horse melon at the Chaulkville Fair in 1993. Oh, there went the memory of Tellings the Tiniest Clown falling into a vat of pigs while trying to retrieve a dime from a leathern satchel hanging by a nail over a farmer's bed. Gone, such precious remembrances, splashing upon asphalt and scattering into the hateful dust like endless diamonds from the faces of angels. Where did my memory go of washing a dog with a damp napkin while watching reruns of Charles in Charge back in 1984? It wasn't even my dog. Whose dog was that? And why did it keep biting me? And was the napkin really just a rusty old nail glued to a bent tree branch? I think so, but that memory is evaporating upon the tarry ground. Soon enough, all of my memories were as gone as the wadded up dollar bills I once found crammed inside my corn dog from the Corn Dog 6 restaurant and which I used to purchase a bar of soap which I promptly ate because my stomach was full of vile filth. Gone, gone and a thousand times gone! For many months, I remembered nothing and wandered the earth like Kwai Chang Cain, doing good withersoever I went, like the time I saved a horse from drowning in a huge bowl of melted crayons and that other time I pulled an old lady out of a hippo's hungry, hungry mouth. Where have I been all these months? Who am I? Why am I here? I don't know, but we will discover the answer together, my secret web friend. I will pull on my silken gloves of remembrance and remember you.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Today I feel like saying a random couple of words: moon poop.
I bought a bus ticket today with dimes that I found in my hat. I am leaving in one hour to go visit Touches the Impure Clown. I have my bags packed with liniment and a fresh shirt stuffed in my hiney crack. I am exciting, afraid, vomitous, angry, shaking, old, dirty and young. I will report back soon on how my visit goes. I haven't seen this darned old loser clown in many a year. He probably looks really ugly.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
So I haven't posted anything on this blog for a while, and you might be wondering what happened to me. When last I wrote here, I was talking about the job and some problems I had with it and possibly being fired and all. Well, I had a little trouble the other day. I was sitting on a fire hydrant over on the corner of Chauncy and 12th, tossing potatoes at these crows, and I ran out of potatoes and got really bored, so I decided to try to go back to the mall and work some more. So I walk into the mall, and I start juggling these kids and prancing about, and I got some gumballs out of the gumball machine and starting hiding them in people's pants and running around, plus sneezing in people's faces and pretending like gumballs were flying out of my nostrils but really I was just tossing the gumballs from my hand...you know, all that funy clown-type stuff that regular people pay good money to watch. Anyway, people start yelling at me and calling on their cell phones, and police showed up at the mall. At first, I tried entertaining the police, I did a little dance and threw my socks at them and made a baloon animal doggy out of this plastic grocery store bag and threw dimes in their faces and made shrieking noises until one guy grabbed his ear and fell to the ground weeping. That's when they clamped the irons on my wrists and carted me off to hell, aka prison, aka county jail. They even took my clown suit away. This big ole brown-looking person with numbers tattooed on his neck wanted to take me out on a date and offered me "prison love" and stabbed me in the face with a sharpened comb and splashed toiler water in my eyes and told me he loved me. Sheesh! And people think clowns are strange! I hung out in the jail for a few days just to see what was going on, but the only thing going on was prison love, so I left. A man can only take a comb in the face so many times before he snaps. I picked the lock of the cell with a hangnail and walked right on out of there. I don't think the "fuzz" knows I left yet. I guess I'd better leave town. Maybe I'll pack up my troubles in my old kit bag and smile and go visit Touches the Impure Clown. I'll have to get an atlas to figure out hot to get to where he lives. I don't think I'll call and let him know I'm coming, though. I'm afraid that hippo he lives with won't like it if he knows i'm coming. You know how hippos can be. I might just eat that hippo. Maybe not. I'll take some steak sauce just in case. I prefer Pintis' Pepperfied Steak Joose, available at a fine Wal-Mart store near you.
Uh oh, I just heard a knock at the door, and now there are red and blue lights flashing through the window. Okay, they're kicking down the door. They're running down the hallway, four policemen, coming toward me. Lots of screaming. One of them has me in a headlock, the others are trying to pry my fingers off the keyboard. Ouch, blows to the head, blows to the head! My fingers are slipping, they're slipping, they
Friday, June 18, 2004
No more job for Cakey?
I lost that stupid job that I had at the mall. It is just another sign of the world's increasing apostasy from the glory days of Clown. Here's how it went down. After my first day at work, I took a few days off to sort of let it all cool down. Some people got mad at me after I chased that kid all the way from the mall to his home and then kicked his father in the "special secret" before he smashed me about the face and neck. I think I neglected to mention the kick I gave him in my last post, so let me mention it now. I did kick him in his "tea and crumpets." Yes, I rammed the toe of my clown shoe into his "eggs and bacon." Well, he just looked like a man who needed a hard kick in the "toast and butter," if you catch my drift, and if you've gotta get kicked in the "ham and raisins" who better to do the kicking that a prancing, dancing, nancing clown? So there was mall security leaving messages on my phone, and some kind of letter in the mail from a lawyer and a little write-up in the local paper with some kind of crap of a lie headline that said, "LOCAL CLOWN ASSAULTS MAN, FRIGHTENS CHILD." I did nothing of the sort. I kicked a man in the nuts and tried to force his son to ride the kiddie train at the mall. That's all I did. Don't go believing no dad-blamed liars. There was no "assaulting" and no "frightening" of children. Just testicle kicking and some harmless chasing.
Anyway, I hid out in the dumpster behind Ronty's Grist Mill (my favorite local restaurant) for a few days to let all this nonsense blow over. Then I took a quick bath in the pond and went back to work at the mall. I even managed to get in a good two hours of work. I climbed on this old guy's back and tickled his neck with my teeth for a few minutes. I made the kiddie train jump the tracks so I could drive it all over the mall and into Luby's where I ordered seventeen servings of mashed potatoes which I then drove to Dillard's and passed out to all the shoppers by flinging tasty globs into the air and laughing and kicking the ceiling and prancing. I swam around in a toilet and screamed while someone was trying to use it. I smashed a mirror and handed out the jagged pieces to mall walkers. I mopped the floor with clown paste, which is a fun concoction with the following recipe: 1 cup of powdered sugar, 2 cups of olive oil, 1 stick of butter, 1/8 cup of saliva, 1 tablespoon of poop and 2 eggs, all mixed together in a bowl and microwaved on high heat for one minute. That's clown paste. It is fun to spread on floors with a mop. It makes people fly like geese and soar like falcons through the sparkling sky. Anyway, after about two hours of this, all kinds of police surrounded the mall and people were running and screaming, so I slipped out the back door and went home. I guess it means I'm fired. Maybe not. I'll try again in a few days. Never give up! That is the motto of a successful "payaso."
Monday, June 14, 2004
So I got a job today. It's not a good job, but it does pay. The local mall here has this little train for the kiddies that goes around and around in a circle, and they wanted a clown to operate the train and laugh at the chitlens. I filled out an application online, and since I knew they would only cry if they saw me in person, I hired this homeless man who lives in the alley behind the gas station where I usually sleep to pretend to be me for the job interview. So this homeless guy was named Roger, and he smelled like some stuff that you don't even want to know about, such as vomit, pee and poop, but you don't want to know about that stuff, so we won't talk about it today.
Anyway, I smeared a bunch of white latex paint on Roger's face and rubbed a red crayon really hard around his mouth and nose until they both turned bright red and dripped and then smashed blueberries over his eyes and poured antifreeze in his hair to make it a funny color. He didn't look much like a clown, or a human being, or smell any different, but he did look less scary than me. So Roger went on over to the mall and somehow passed the job interview. He probably used his masculine charms on the job interview lady. I suggested he make some kissy faces and wink a lot and pat her on the arm every time she insulted him or frowned. I also implored him NOT to remove his britches, unless he absolutely he had to, and he only absolutely had to about seven times during the interview.
So Roger got hired as "Cakey the Precious Clown," which is not my real name, but close enough. Then I blindfolded Roger, put five dollars in his pocket, and led him to another city, so he wouldn't actually show up for the job. So I show up at the mall promptly at noon, dressed in this little train engineer costume I made out of newspaper, paper clips and a live goose. I pranced around for a while and laughed and juggled some books down at the Waldenbooks, and poked a few old people in the stomachs with my finger and earned a few tips (like this tip from an older lady named Bertha: "Don't look at people. It makes them want to die sooner!"). It was a fun old time, I tells ya's. I even operated the kiddie train for a few minutes, but no kids would ride it. I chased one kid because he looked like he wanted to ride it, but he only wept and peed his pants and ran out of the mall and across the parking lot and down the street and all the way to his house on the other side of town where his redneck father bashed me in the neck with a tire iron. Nobody understands that a clown means no harm. He only wants to entertain. But he was only a kid, so I guess I can overlook his unnecessary fears. He was only 23 years old. So it's a fun job, and the police haven't showed up yet. The only thing I have to figure out is how to collect the paycheck.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
So I tried to make some of that clown salve today. I was going to send it to Touches via overnight mail, but some of the ingredients were not available. Do you know how hard it is to find aloe? I looked everywhere: in my yard, in a random old lady's house, in the gutter near my house, in a dumpster, in the air, in a rhino's nostrils, in my pockets, in the glove compartment of Danny Devito's lime green 1973 Pinto, in the fourth dimension, in my mind, in my stool sample. But I didn't find any aloe in any of those places. Does that make sense? Does aloe even exist anymore? Maybe the wicked clown haters of the earth have removed it from existence. Oh, well. At least I found plenty of horse saliva. That's the money ingredient there, that horse saliva. It's so thick and soothing, like vegetable oil mixed with mustard boiled in a pot of mayonnaise. So I have to find a replacement ingredient for the aloe. I wonder if anyone reading this blog might have any suggestions. I am thinking of using back-of-the-knee sweat, because it has many similar properties to aloe. Whatever. One way or another, I am sending something labelled "Clown Salve" to Touches tomorrow. My old compatriot needs help, and I mean to help him so we can reunite the All American Klown Kroo. Don't try to stop me.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
I stabbed the earth today. You heard me right. I stabbed the earth. What does it mean? Well, I took my big old juggling knife--you know the kind, it has an extra long rubberized handle and an eight inch blade with polka dots on it--Yes, I took that knife and I stabbed the earth with it. Why did I do it? Because the corrupted earth is the one who has tainted the hearts of Man and taught them to despise the clown and leave him largely unfunded. Five dollars is not too much to ask for one hour of balloon animal antics, bowling ball juggling, shriek-filled prancing and pantsless nancing, is it? I never thought so. I don't think the earth really cared that I stabbed it, though. In fact, I'm pretty sure it laughed at me. Yeah, just you laugh it up, Laughy O'Rourke! When the Klown Kroo re-conquers the entertainment world with howling and fun, your laughter will turn to tears and shame like hot butter poured in the eyes of a blood-thirsty hog.
In other news, I tried to call Touches back today, but his roommate Larry said he was too sick to come to the phone. Apparently, the stress of remembering the past caused a rash on his head that is so large, he can't breathe, eat, open his eyes, lift his head, comb his hair, put on a shirt, drink liquids, speak, wear a hat, stick his tongue out or live. But other than that, he is doing just fine. Larry said to give him a couple of days. Then again, Larry is a circus hippo, and circus hippos are notorious liars. The last time I encountered a circus hippo was in Reno, and that circus hippo wound up on my dinner plate. By the way, hippo steak tastes like poop. Don't try it. Anyway, I will call Touches back in a few days. If he still has a rash, I will send him a special clown salve in the mail that is made from aloe, dill pickle juice, horse saliva, mint leaves, lemon puree, dog vomit, foot scrapings, wheatgrass, dirt rubbings and pee. That always clears up a rash. Oh, trust me.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Touches gets touched
So I finally got in touch with Touches. Whoa, did you catch the irony in that first sentence? That's more irony than a clown can handle sitting down. It's like a cup of cold excitement poured down my spine. I'd better go prance around the living room for a few minutes. Bear with me.
Okay, I'm back. Do you like how I put "time passes" in there, so you would realize a few minutes had passed? I liked it. I'll do it again.
Whoa, I did it again, and once again it was the truth. Time does pass. So I finally got hold of one of my former Kroo mates. Touches the Clown was probably the easiest one to track down, what with all his prison records. He's been on the outside for a few years now, working as a kettle korn kooker for some rinky dink amusement park called Santa's Magicland in Indiana somewhere. He says he's got scars all over his hands from stirring the kettle korn with his bare hands, and scars on his tongue from moistening the rim of the kettle. I told him to stop moistening the rim of the kettle with his tongue, but he says he has to moisten it to keep the korn from sticking to the rim when he dumps it out. Well, anyway, at least he's working. He earns $7 an hour, and he's living in a trailer park. Of course, $7 an hour isn't enough to pay the rent on the trailer, so he has a couple of roommates: a local magician named Konstanse the Unknowable and a circus hippo named Larry. I mentioned the possibility to Touches of getting the old Klown Kroo back together to tour, but he just cried and vomited on the phone. He's not ready to really think about it, I guess. Also, he says the fumes from the kettle korn have damaged his cerebral cortex. Apparently, they use a lye/vinegar/baking powder mixture in the making of kettle korn, and the fumes from it will go right up the nostrils and into the skull where they will begin to dissolve grayish tissues, if you inhale them directly. Maybe you didn't know that. Now you do. I think Touches will come around. I have threatened to come and visit him in Indiana, and he didn't spew diarrhea into the phone, so I take that as a good sign. He is open to the idea of a visit. I'll call him back tomorrow and see if his emotional state has improved. If not, I might have to stab him. That always worked in the past.
Monday, June 07, 2004
hard to be a clown
Hardship is my bread. I have tried and tried for many troubling years to succeed in this world, but this is not a world designed for the benefit of clowns. If you don't believe me, try this: the next time you are walking down the street, count the number of clowns you see. You will not count very high, and why should that be? Because the clowns are all at home crying. We cry because there are so many misconceptions about us, because people will not give us money when we need it, and because our gifts to the universe are increasingly taken for granted in a hostile world. *sigh* I suppose I just miss the good old days, when an old lady would gladly hand over five dollars just to make you get out of her house. Despicable lies have infiltrated the earth, corrupting the reputations of clowns. But this will all change. I can see the change. It's lurking behind a tree just out of sight, waiting for that moment when the world will pass by and it can jump out suddenly and shriek and slap the whole earth unaware and shout, "Clowns are here! Clowns are here! Enjoy their presence forever! Fund them generously and laugh, O Tainted Planet of Liars!" Yes, that time is coming. To that end, I am reuniting--hopefully--the members of the elite All American Klown Kroo Revue. You might remember us. We toured the earth from March of 1973 to July of 1992. Prison, drugs, nervous breakdowns, mime attacks and rabies broke up the Klown Kroo in the cursed, moist Clintonian summer of 1992, but we are getting back together. I only have to contact the boys. I don't have any of their phone numbers or addresses, but that is a minor glitch in my otherwise gorgeous plans. Get ready. Save up your pennies. Summer of 2005 will be the Summer of the Clown. It shall be the summer of Cakey, Touches, Tellings and Disturby. Oh, yes, the summer you've dreamed about in the damp hours of the night. Prepare!