jalopy.jpgThere was once a clown who worked at a cir­cus fac­tory that made clown parts. This clown was a qual­ity tester at the fac­tory.

Her first duty in the morn­ing was to make sure that the wa­ter-squirt­ing car­na­tions squirted wa­ter and that the crème pies were just the right amount of creami­ness. Then she would re­move her hair and nose and try on new clown hair and noses. The clown didn’t re­ally like her own nose; it was a rub­ber salami. When she tested the other noses, she would think about how they set off the polka dots on her jump­suit and the spots of color that were her cheeks.

Then she would take off her feet and put on the newest clown feet. She tested these by slip­ping on ba­nana peels and falling into tubs of pud­ding. The larger the splash, the bet­ter the shoes. She wanted new clown feet too, hers were start­ing to cor­rode a bit.

All in all, her job bred much dis­con­tent. She was a poor clown, un­able to af­ford the ex­cel­lent and ef­fec­tive gad­getry that she con­fronted her each day. She owned a bright pur­ple jalopy that never worked cor­rectly and could only hold three other clowns. Eventually this clown be­came the dri­ving force in what be­came known as the Great Balloon Animal Uprising. After this failed at­tempt at world dom­i­na­tion was quashed all clowns were com­pletely erad­i­cated by vig­i­lantes who were retroac­tively par­doned by pas­sage of the Deharlequin Act.

The clown is dead. Long live the clown.

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