When Encountering a Clown; Consider Laughing. And Cricket Bats

Has anyone thought that the most appropriate thing to do when they see a clown is to laugh?

We’re discussing a fucking loser, a ranked and certified loser, a loser who excels at loserhood.

How will you find something to do with your life? How about dousing your throat in makeup, putting a mask on, finding the most creepy looking knife from your mum’s kitchen draw and then hanging out in a cornfield until some teenagers come along?

And your primary objective?

You’re trying to impress people, aren’t you?

Doubt not, right along with me, that these honkers are the sort to go home after they’ve hung out in the wheat field for a few hours, feeling satisfied with their contribution to the zeitgeist, like those Anonymous arseholes.

There’s a good deal of arseholehood in wearing a mask, especially if you say you’re a good guy.

Not quite as arseholehood as a guy running at your car, hoping you pull away just in time.

They must plead in your head that you make it away in time, otherwise they’re going to be so embarrassed at the point of capture they’re going to have to murder someone because…they’ve gone this far and can’t back down now.

It’s like Trump only with slightly less ridiculous hair.

Imagine the picture as the clown loses his nerve, whilst a car full of adults with children and mortgages (positively riddled with children and mortgages), maybe with an alpha male whose been longing for an opportunity to protect his family.

There are men with cubicle jobs, dealing with traffic every morning and every night, coming home to an aging wife, expanding waistline, a despondent south facing penis and decreasingly enjoyable children, being told by his boss that he needs to try harder if he’s truly serious about this junior role, and he can’t even play cricket anymore because his daughter’s soccer class is more important and he has to visit his wife’s dad who calls him a pussy whenever he’s out of the room…any then he sees a clown staring at his car.

Walking towards him with that “Trust-me-I’m-disturbed-like-in-the-films” angle of the neck, with his mother’s most Hollywood kitchen knife dangling down at his side, his pace quickening. And then DAD remembers he’s still got his cricket bat in the boot of the car.

Oh he’ll be thanking the strange-ass culture of the world that has brought this clown into his life.

And he can’t wait to see what amusing noises will eminate from this clown.

That’s a good point; it excuses people from devastating a clown’s joke.

I’ve never actually met a clown, but I’ve reviewed the history and it would seem you’re supposed to laugh at them. Not that that’s the point; you should laugh at these losers with a honk noise because this is their Friday night.

Having a honk doesn’t make you a clown, it makes you a loser in a mask who, because of that, feels like they’re free from consequences; and the consequence of running at towards me wearing a mask and holding a machete whilst a honking noise emits from you is – I’m going to whip out my pocket baseball bat and ruin the joke.

Clowns: laugh at them.

And keep a cricket bat handy in case of potential losers trying to get a personality.

I would also like to say a quick “Hullo” to MI5 who are reading in currently.

Do you think that when you chaps drop by it could be a tad less clandestine; as I could really do with the views.

And I plan to achieve that by mentioning what follows.

I am holding a smoke grenade and just so happen to also currently be feeling fairly flippant towards the establishment.

I DON’T CARE IF IT’S A LEGAL SMOKE GRENADE BOUGHT AT A PAINTBALLING SESSION…you should still click on my page.

The smoke grenade is mightier than the pen, so sayeth the struggling writer holding a smoke grenade for maximum effect.

I am qualified.

Flaunting the potential of a terrorist threat should do get the hordes of admiring MI5 agents flocking to my page and ‘Liking’ it.

It’s almost as dreary as asking trying to impress people by wearing a clown mask.

I hope MI5 like me.

They’d better.

Or I’ll let off this smoke grenade in my room and show everybody.

That’ll do for today; next time I’ve got some choice words for sharks and why Hemmingway was right to machine gun them.

Thanks,

Sam

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