the clown ·
23 June 04

Ah, these neckband headphones.

A godsend and a damned annoyance. They rigidly stick to my outer ear, provided the mechanism by which they remain in place and fail to shift around. So rigid, however, that my ears feel as though they are about to depart. I think if I use them long enough and push them down hard enough, I would be the only waiter in the world that could carry dinner on his ears.

I could be the human Dumbo; I have the trunk, now I could have the ears as well. I would dress up as a depressed clown, moving from place to place, trying to earn a buck here and there. Covered in a facade of make up and paint to illustrate the resentful happiness I feel by working as the clown for the amusement of others. The joker, the fool, the jester but in all essence, the failure – the clown.

Clowns are interesting. I have never stopped to talk to one for long enough. They seem to lead double lives – the life they lead, and the dream life they want to lead. We all do it, we do something we do because we need to, but we don’t possibly enjoy it as much as we would if were doing something we wanted to do. Something we were paid to do, that we enjoyed. The clown is different. The clown is unable to do the job they want to do, nor earn the money they would like to earn. The other dilemma, based on my experience and interaction with clowns in a wider sense, is that they’re unhappy. Making others happy is what they are paid to do – they do this for one of two reasons: out of joy or out of sadness.

The joy from making other people happy is obvious. You are given some senseless satisfaction from being wanted, needed for that moment; the ability to humour considered a gift – the ability to behave moronically a paid experience. Perfecting the art of the idiot.

Though the few seconds were not long, it was enough to end his life in further embarrassment.

The sadness in making people happy must be greater though. This is all you have left to give to the world. You’re aware, as you spray yourself with water, and get hit in the face with a pie for the millionth time that you have perfected an art form that will never change. You will change your routine, but it will not change your life. You become embedded in a world that doesn’t exist, creating your own split personality – that of the maniacally depressed individual who has no where to go, no life to live, no world to exist in where sympathy and help is at hand. The other personality is that of the clown. The embodiment that you control, a sprit that you become in order to get away from the reality of your circumstance. “I am a clown, and one day people will stop laughing at me.”

And then the clown’s life ends. People WILL stop laughing at you, all your life has been a joke; your existence has been one set routine of comic tragedies, one after another, continually spiralling into some melancholy climax of realisation. “I am no longer funny; I have no life to live.”

Patheticism is inherit in the life of a clown. He ceases to be funny, and his broken heart can no longer be mended, collapsing like a pile of bones in his squalid arm chair. The light is broken, or does not work. He sits in the cesspool of self-deprivation, with the dim light from the windows barely showing through the dusty curtains that were raised only 20 years ago, and never opened since he took that chance to be the fool. The clown opens his third vodka bottle, pours himself a drink, and wretches as the poison forces itself down. He looks at the picture of his wife, his children, the life he could never give them – a life they have now with the clown that left to make a career in Business Marketing & Management. Screwing his wife, raising his kids, living the life of happiness that he had once, and could have continued to have.
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He followed his dream, and crashed the plane whose destination was always the mountain top, never Spain. He knew this when he saw the flight departure

“Flight Doom: Destination: Misery and No Hope, Stopping at Depression, Nervous Breakdown, Self-Loathing, Fear and finally Death.” He still got on board.

What he failed to realise, what he was too self-absorbed to understand was by the time he got on the plane at one end, everyone had vacated through the rear exit.

“We realise! We want to live! We want money! Love! Greed” Sex!”

The pilot was just doing his duty, and only stayed for the portion of the flight. The pilot had already arranged his own exit; a parachute on the side, a rescue team waiting exactly as planned in the sea bed, floating against the violent crashes of water. He watches as the clown sleeps, his faeces of self-hatred spewing from every orifice. The final destination was Death. The pilot had no plans to complete his flight to the letter, and sticks the autopilot on. A malicious grin grows on the pilot’s face before he exits. He walks back towards the “cabin area” and returns with an assortment of food and drinks. Grabbing a bowl he throws everything in, spitting in it, squashing and mashing it with his foot with vehement hatred and anger. Many years of malice, suddenly appeared in the pilot’s eyes – his grin turned into something evil. His teeth were grinding as he pounded the food items into the bowl.

embedded in a world that doesn’t exist, creating your own split personality – that of the maniacally depressed individual who has no where to go

“Fuck you! Fuck you bastards!” he shouted as the food began to mix in with the dirt off the bottom of his shoes. He unzipped his fly and pulled out his dick. He then proceeded to urinate into the bowl, there was some turbulence, which knocked him back a little, disoriented, and he had pissed on his leg. “Fucking hell! Fucking cunts! FUCK YOU!”. He pulled his dick back in after completing his act, and zipped his fly.

With effort, with care, with absolute steadiness. He prepared himself; he inhaled and exhaled moderately, seeking composure and focus. With both hands he lifted the bowl up; the urine was spilling side to side. The crap load of food and mixed in with it, shaking during the turbulence and it was the biggest bowl of crap that existed on that plane at that time – excluding the clown. The pilot cursed and gritted his teeth, as the crap drizzled over the side of his hands, “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

The clown slept, soundly. A regression to childhood, happier memories. The dream of a complete family – an example of the perfect nuclear stereotype. The fool, the fool.

The pilot approached a crescendo, the turbulence was greater now, and he was aware time was running out. He smashed the bowl upon the clowns face. The urine and food stuff running off his face, on to his T-shirt, which he had worn everyday since the day he got married. His wife had bought it for him, but even she was asking him to stop. It became a vile, filthy memory of the lethargy of life the clown had chosen. It had holes, food stains and all manner of crap on it. Now, the clown was drenched in more crap – the crap of an angry pilot.
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“I hate you fucking clowns. You think you’re funny, but you’re not. I was in a fucking hospital for months because you fuckers scared the shit out of me. You’re a loser, a pathetic joke. Last stop is Death, you fucking scum. Even Death will reject you.”

He laughed insanely, as he walked towards the exit door and opened it, “Fucking clowns” he muttered as he jumped out of the plane.

There were no life vests remaining, there was no parachute to spare for his pathetic life. He was alone, the plane drawing closer to the mountain top. He prays for forgiveness, his life flashes before his eyes. And then the life he wanted flashes before his eyes. Like a speed train with no stops, a direct route through to hope, glory and eternal happiness. He missed the train, took the plane and sealed his life with the stamp of eternal disaster. He feels the plane diving, he hears the plane diving. Death to the clown.

The investigator’s initial reaction to seeing the dead clown in the chair was that of laughter. “Poor bastard. I just took my kid to see a clown they other day, they’re funny as hell. Stupid, but they’re funny.” His assistant couldn’t see the humour, and looked at the clown in disdain. “Fucking loser. I hate clowns” was his response to the investigator.

The dream of a complete family – an example of the perfect nuclear stereotype.

Results of the investigation into the death of the clown revealed excessive alcohol in his blood. Much like most victims of suicide, he had urinated in his seat. A normal reaction to the fear of death. The bullet had pierced through his temple, and exited partially through his skull. They predicted his death was not instant, but may have lasted a few seconds – conscious of the result of his gun firing poorly and the bullet not exiting. Though the few seconds were not long, it was enough to end his life in further embarrassment. Everything in that room, in that house pointed to suicide. The gun with his fingerprints, on the floor, next to the seat. The bullet in the head, fired from the gun. There was no sign of a struggle, or of robbery. There was nothing to steal, there was nothing to take. Everything reeked like some gypsy curse placed upon those who had committed a crime by existing.

“We’ll let forensics deal with this shit. I have enough to make a report. Open and shut case. Christ, you would think a clown would be happier! Are you coming to the barbeque?”

“Goddam right I am! Got 150 bucks riding on the game, and I wanna see my glory on a big screen”

“Shame your girl can’t see that kinda glory in the bedroom. ha ha”

“Hey, fuck you man! It’s goddam winter!”

The case was closed. The barbeque went ahead, with the assistant losing his 150 bucks on the game.

I went back to work at my desk, finding a more comfortable position for the headphones which caused less pain and tension to the ears. As I discussed the Budget for 2004 with the cripple, I stapled my finger, it hurt and there were small puncture holes in the top of the finger. It was approaching lunch time, and I had a report to finish.

Moral: Everytime a clown dies; one more person doesn’t give a shit