Like ha-ha funny, like clown funny…I amuse you?

All the world love a clown. Send in the clowns. And even though your heart is aching, laugh clown laugh. God, what a crock of Shineola.

Every since I was a toddler, I’ve always possessed a disdain for these frightening looking beasts. They are a socially retarded lot, with their floppy red curly hair, bulbous noses, baggy pants and signature over-sized pontoons for shoes. They’re society’s misfits, outcasts from everyday life who sought refuge under the big top, the only place where “their” kind can find acceptance.

I’ve always hated clowns. They are annoying – getting in your face, commanding a reaction , looking for the smile that never comes – just a wince of sheer terror on the circus goers face as he or she cracks a faux grin only to appease this clod, hoping he moves on to the next unsuspecting victim.

Why would anyone want to be a clown? Of all the vocations on the planet, they pick one that requires them to dress like cross between Cher and a hobo, while wearing more make up than Tammy Faye Baker at an Avon party. Your job is to make people laugh, to make them happy – all the while thoughts of despair run through that wig covered dome, knowing you could have had the successful accounting firm that mom had always hoped for you. But instead of numbers you crunch soda cups, spray a seltzer bottle in the face of a monkey, and act as if the steel bucket you’re carrying is really filled with water, instead of the confetti that we all know is really there. The act is old, bro – even a five year old knows you’re a fraud.

Take a trip to the circus and they’ll greet you in the doorways, descending upon each patron like blood sucking locusts in need of a fresh kill. Half of these tards don’t talk, which is a gig I’ve never really understood, but thankfully huge name badges display their monikers so you know who to report to the authorities after the molestation. There’s Squeeky and Sunshine, Doodles, and Fraggle, Beenie and Pom Pom, Chibbles, and Mr. Fugnut. I remember Mike Smiler approaching my three year-old daughter, years back. She tried to remove herself from her own skin, violently squirming from my grip, somehow sensing that Mr. Smiler had plans to marinate her in hot sauce and share the carcass with Wiggles and Captain Zookey. He just smiled as his name suggested, signed our program and moved on, looking for other fresh meat to disembowel and hang in his meat locker / clown van.

And what of the infamous clown car where a never-ending gaggle of over-zealous dolts climb out from the backseat, confusing you into thinking that some kind of magic was taking place before your eyes. But again you uncreative turds, even an infant knows the score and you are the unsuspecting rube, not us.

I remember as a child watching Emmett Kelly on stage – shuffling about within a three-foot spotlight, pretending to be mopping the floor, wearing his patented frown as if someone filled his bucket with a fresh load of tiger excrement. He’s billed as America’s favorite clown, but that is only a bizarre oxymoron that some sick marketing huckster dreamed up to get his ten percent cut of the action. And Bozo was another strange anomaly, a ghastly looking behemoth who wore a Grand Canyon smile by day, and for certain, drowned himself in several liters of distilled grains by nightfall. Yes, take your Bozo no-no and shove it up your ass.

And would you believe that to become a certified clown, one must attend a real-life clown college? Can you imagine a campus overrun with balloon animals and cotton candy vendors, where instructors squirt you from the flower in their lapels and teach you the fine art of shoveling elephant crap. The only mode of transportation is via unicycle and a steady diet of popcorn and franks keeps your bowels fresh and steamy all day.

All the world loves a clown, my ass. Remember the character Joe Divola on Seinfeld, the sociopathic opera fan who disturbing demeanor made Kramer soil his chinos? I think that Krusty the Klown from the Simpsons is the real, true description of this pathetic and sickening vocation – An inebriated, chain smoking letch, who spends his lunch hour at twenty-five cent peep shows while grappling with his clown sized loins for fun and pleasure.

Please, do NOT send in the clowns. I will not laugh or take pleasure in their skitzophrenic silliness. If that sorry son of a bitch comes anywhere me with that confetti filled bucket – I WILL forcibly remove the seltzer bottle from his mitts and give him a carbonated enema that he’ll never forget. I feel sorry for these wretched goons whose resume will never allow them to assimilate into the real world of respectable employment.

God, I hate f@#kin’ clowns.

And I’ll tell you one thing for sure – I didn’t need no stinkin’ clown college – I got this way all on my own, thank you.