Clownin Around

Before there was ever a thought about dentistry there was clown school. Masquerading as a deliverer of smiles and fun was an appealing and surely rewarding profession.

One day in elementary school I was wondering what I would be when I grew up. My eyes searched the ceiling above my bed as if it possessed the secret. Professions floated in my mind for consideration and just as quickly were discarded. My eyes were lazily doing concentric circle patterns that slowly expanded down to the antiseptic white walls of my room. Covering them was a thick tapestry of famous clown posters. Bozo, Shakes, Bobo the clowns were all heroes of mine. I especially liked the Joker from Batman even though he isn’t technically an entertainment clown. He’s considered the rebel of clowns but still my favorite. I prognosticated that I would become the most famous clown there ever was. Little did I know this seemingly innocent goal would lead to death threats and kidnappings from those bastards at The Hobo Convention, the dirty, dirty wanna be fraternity. Nobody could make me capitulate my dream! Call me stubborn, call me recalcitrant just don’t call me late for dinner. I am venturing off topic and I apologize. I will start from the beginning. I worked hard all through high school to get a cumulative grade point average of 0.00. It was tough because one semester I almost ended up getting a D- but after talking my teacher out of it I ended up with my desired F. It was mandatory that I impress the clown schools. They don’t like overachievers. They, like the army, want someone they can mold. I would present the most moldable person I could while withholding any smarts I possessed. My little secret just like My Little Pony. It’s not supposed to make sense. Much to the dismay of my parents, when I was 18 I had a red round ball surgically attached to my nose and also got an enlarged red mouth tattoo around my lips. I felt like a hard ass. Other clown hopefuls were only clowns for the evening or for a gig, I would be a clown forever. I sailed through the acceptance process and began classes at the Hobo Hopefuls University. Hobo was originally a clown until he was disgracefully excused from clown service due to unmentionable infractions. Needless to say it was not an amicable parting of ways. The name has since become a reference to homeless wanderers because that’s what he did after his dismissal. Nobody knows what became of Hobo he just wandered off into the sunset, never to be seen or heard from again. At school I selected Bozo II as my school mentor. He was taught under the direction and guidance of the original Bozo. Can you believe it?? He was the one that posed as the infamous Holiday gas station clown and has his ubiquitous mug in clear view for all to see. I was gleeful and made a vow to learn as much as I could from him. I delved into my classes with an unmatched verve. I wanted to know everything there ever was and is about clowning. History, clown pioneers, techniques and everything else I could get my hands on was unable to satiate my hunger. I wanted my clowning to be reminiscent of some of the classics but with updated flavor incorporated. Things were going along swimmingly until midway through my sophomore year. I took a clownship, equivalent to an internship, and ventured along with a practicing clown one evening. The throwers of the party were dog aficionados and had an eclectic collection of dogs. Long story short, things got out of hand, some dogs escaped and I ended up getting my right butt check bit off by a massive, viscous beast. I think you call them Chihuahuas. Modern science and surgeons don’t get the credit they deserve. They restored my butt check using implants and a donated butt cheek from a cadaver. My current strutting around is facilitated by my composite butt. This is largely the reason why I don’t like doing balloon animals anymore. Anything that resembles a dog gets me shaking worse than Muhammad Ali, Michael J. Fox and Shakes the Clown combined. The minority component is because being a manipulator of balloons resembling animal figures is from the old school. I was going to infuse some much needed revamping into this aged profession. Preliminary twistings included the likes of The Leaning Tower of Pisa, Yankee Stadium, The Parthenon, Stonehenge, Mount Rushmore and other monumental creations. Once I even did a landscape of a barn scene with a wheat field that would pantomime an actual wheat field undulating in the wind. It was amazing! Self taught too. No pathetically simple animal balloon creations would find their genesis from my hands. Exquisite art pieces flowed from my hands. I once asked a prop-fessor, that’s what they call professors at clown school, gay, I know, what he thought of one of my pieces only to hear an intricately woven fabric of obscenities escape his lips. Every defense I could muster yielded the same result, me being scolded for ignoring traditional modes of clowning. I ditched my next class and fled to my dorm room to immerse my self in a few rounds of soda water spritzers. It was going to take a lot to wash away the grief. While mixing my 4th round of drinks, Bozo II burst into my gloom ridden room and asked, “What are you doing? Why aren’t you clowning around?” “Huh? I always am, look at me,” I said woefully. “Very funny smart ass. I didn’t teach you to be a professional only to have you be a half assed clown,” he scolded. “Sir, if you can recall the incident during my sophomore year I think you might be a little more considerate of my feelings. Why didn’t you ask me if I was bummed out too? Both quasi-humorous references to the absence of my homegrown right butt cheek but painful nonetheless. Thank you for helping me re-live that horrifying experience again. Are you teaching How To Be A Sensitive Clown class next semester? Please excuse yourself from my room.” The room suddenly got cold and I felt so alone. I should have worn my padded bra because my nipples were poking out for all to see.