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Resiliency is a Rubber Chicken “BANG! And they’re off! The polyester clad clown-girl leads the pack.” The trigger on the pistol was pulled. There wasn’t a chance in Saint Jullian’s good grace this gun wasn’t loaded. For once, there would be no room for mistake. Not on my part, nor anyone’s. Any clown worth her grease paint could pull this one off. Aside from the cloulaphobiacs, people love clowns. It’s not just their balloons contorted into comforting shapes or bubbly personalities. Crowds always scream and shout for more slap-stick comedy. A clown’s pain is the people’s joy. A kick to the crotch or a faux pas pratfall brings upon a downfall of chortles and convulsions from the audience. When that fails, according to clown guidelines, light something on fire. No one can resist epic destruction, works every time. So who’s to blame anybody for not knowing that I wasn’t simply acting in a different medium of destruction. Soren Kierkegaard even elaborated “ In a theater it happened that a fire started off stage. The clown came out to tell the audience. They thought it was a joke and applauded. He told them again and they became still more hilarious. This is the way, I suppose, that the world will be destroyed- amid the universal hilarity of wits and ways who think it’s all a joke.” Eevn sitting amongst friends, I am always in character. My closest companions have never seen me without makeup; my co-workers refer to me as “Sunshine”, a clown alias as bright as my squirting daisy. Not to mention the fact I am always, dare I say, “clowning around”. to break the ice at dinner, I have gone so far as placing a rubber fly in my clown savior’s, Mr. Smoochies, supper to score that ever famous one-liner, “What’s this fly doing in my soup?” “ Well, sir, I believe it’s the backstroke.” BA DA BUM, CRASH! There’s no one I can Blame for not noticing me sitting on the floor crushing my Plucky, a well worn rubber chicken. I was probably seen as practicing with my first real prop. By no means could this be deep, atramentous meditation. I carried him like a child carries a security blanket. Even jake, my closest companion, figured this to be schtick, my crying into a string of a dozen rainbow handkerchiefs. My desperate search for comic relief. A laugh track would settle my nerves, a dozen raw eggs to juggle and let fall one by one, cracking on my skull, even a latex glove to twist and tie. Clowns are meant to be funny, thats the rule. According to clown ethics, if I am in costume, I must be in character. There is nothing funny about looking into the mirror at 92 pounds, five foot six and a half, more of a holocaust survivor then a harlequin. OH LA LA. Not even a red rubber nose is going to make this an amusing piece. Clown ethics shattered by my refusal to eat anything when even the scent of food makes me ill. What’s blithe about a clown who has been abandoned, raped and ridiculed. “The Metamorphosis” is hardly a riotous sketch, the story of a man to realize he has been transformed into a vermin, a story of society as a whole. A funny-walk even looses it’s spunk when it’s due to a torn muscle, not inspired by Chaplin, not in to the grace of Saint Jullian. Plucky and I, we have something in common. No matter how many times you bend and fold a rubber chicken, they always seem to find their featherless form. There is never any visual sign this prop has been tortured, their squeak still receives shrieks and shrill snickers from a crowd. That once contorted chicken is still successful. Neither Plucky nor myself have had to turn to drugs (a lot of good heroin would do a rubber chicken), or dropped out. I haven’t become what every one had expected. My resiliency can be compared only with his. Resiliency is a rubber chicken. In front of Jake, Mr. Smoochies, I twist the pistol. My atomic orange silk shirt still holds a deep aroma of my late boyfriend, in all his curtness an seriousness, even after four years. My legs far out ahead of me tipped with bigger then big Converse. Two Sharpie faces glare up from my toes, one sad because he’s a shoe, one smiling because he’s in denial, and plucky stare up at me as an undoubting audience in attention that Freddie Mercury could only dream of. Eddie Katz, my pianist, my maestro, pounds his silver hammers further dampening the mood as he sings out “A shooting star is, a little piece of, cosmic debris desperately wanting to fall to earth. It doesn’t get too far, it’s not a real star, it’s hardly even worth foot notes in your memoir.” Of all the songs he could choose to sing at all the horrible times possible. Why doesn’t he try a round of “Send in the Clowns” or “Seasons in the Sun” to lighten to mood... HUCK HUCK HUCK. That song, it’s the final straw. It was up with the pistol before down with the curtain, the final act. The piano instantly ceased, my audience grew suspenseful, and I was in the spotlight. Then “BANG!” and there is was. The trigger was pulled and not even Saint Jullian could change the fact it was loaded. The act, a curtain call. The audiance blanched, whiter then my grease paint. The pistol didn’t smoke like you see in the movies. My wittnesses, not screams emitted from their agape mouths. The only noise, a good fifteen seconds after the the click of the pistols trigger was a high pitched, screeching laugh. From the polished barrel hung the red and white comic book fabric sign, “BANG!” Finally, a few nervous chuckles emerged form my corpse like viewers. “Comic relief.” I mouthed. .. MyGen Profile Generator MyGen Profile Generator .. MyGen Profile Generator
Your Quirk Factor: 88%
You....'re beyond quirky... You....'re downright bizarre.
You....'ve lost touch with social norms and what....'s appropriate. And you....'re loving every minute of it! How Quirky Are You? .r{;} {visibility:visible;}
You Are 100% Weird
You....'re more than quirky, you....'re downright strange.
But you....'re also strangely compelling, like a cult leader. How Weird Are You? ..
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