Emmett clown (upside down)
The only gift a clown can give himself is attempted rational thought.
January 27, 2008
By Brian Lewis-Jones
Greetings! I've had a busy couple of weeks. Here's something for your gnawing pleasure: an excerpt from a short story I wrote called "Emmett Clown, Upside Down." I hope you think it's OK. If you don't like it, just tell yourself it's based on a true story.
Emmett threw off his paper blanket, lolly-popped out of bed and waddled to his dresser where a red round nose and face paint awaited him. Ornamenting himself with a saggy hat and lamenting clown-frown, he marched out of his pod and let out a honk-honk and a meep-meep, interpreted by some as a squeak-squeak and a select few as kiss-my-ass, which is the closest translation. He was heading to Clowntown to see the 500-pound man and demand a little change.
Standing outside of his frail Jivesville shack, he noticed the change 40 years can bring to a territory. Bearded ladies taxied their presumably happy children along the tight rope. Thousands of huts like Emmett’s were sprouting from the ground like a young coniferous forest, but lacking rainfall. Emmett approached the street corner, and what timing! The Clown-Jive Connector was just arriving. Emmett was on his way to the big man’s district.
The Connector sped off on the tight rope. The next mile would have fruitybooths at every corner, firebreathers pouring out of their front doors. The big dipper left folksies sober in the city, but out here, liberty was still bottled like the something of a loony, unregulated tap.
Emmett was zoned out. Before he knew it, his clowny face-frowny was off the bus standing in front of Clowntown Pity Hall. He hopped to it.
Inside Pity Hall, there were no clowns, just overweight poodles. Their owner was the mayor, the 500-pound-man, the man-who-should-make-me-feel-sometimes-OK-yes-man, the man Emmett knew couldn’t save the cardboard slums, a man who wasn’t so different from his pets. He walked up to the first fuzzy muffkin.
“Let me see the mayor!” he trumpeted.
The poodle de fatso, whose name tag read Her Majesty, looked at Emmett expectantly. Emmett flashed his eyes to a sign on the counter:
Please feed treat for service. Next to the sign was a box of milk bones. Next to the milk bones were chocolates. Both of their labels read "Please." Not knowing exactly what to do, Emmett put both bowls in front of the fuzzy canine, which had been staring at his face all the while.
Presented with a complicated choice, the dog appeared to enjoy the chocolates more. It was a theory! The only gift a clown can give himself on his birthday is attempted rational thought. The dog appeared to pass out, perhaps it was sleepy. Emmett crept to the 500-pound-man’s office. He charged in and yelled at the top of his lungs, eyes squinting, face frowning:
“I demand a cocktail of joy!”
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i wonder if fuzzy muffkins knew chocolate is poison for poodles- did he have a death wish?
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