False Alarm
A little clown was born in the backwaters of an unfriendly county in a state that resembles Georgia but probably isn't.
He wasn't very tall, his feet weren't particularly (or absurdly) large for his height. His nose was an alarming shade of blue, which was something you didn't see everyday. If it wasn't going to be red it was usually something funny to pronounce, like fuschia, so when an adult leaned over to explain what color the clown's nose was at least the pronunciation of the color of the nose would stand a chance of making the child laugh.
This clown liked to tell stories. So much so it sometimes got in the way of his clowning, because not all of his stories were funny. The elders of his clown tribe were quite worried about the little clown and had many meetings to discuss the little clown; some with him present, others without. All of the meetings tended to descend into either a pie-throwing contest or a dog tackling rodeo. Who kept letting the dogs loose in the meeting room it was anybody's guess. Or, for example, last week a promising enough meeting about the little clown looked to be heading to some sort of resolution, only a piano crashed down through the ceiling and nearly killed four elder clowns. Of course, no one died, because they were well-prepared for these sorts of things. But it did bring the proceedings to a halt, and it was all forgotten about at the next meeting.
So he was a clown without much clown about him, if you know what I mean. Only one day, one of his stories started off a few of the really little clown kids to start crying. And not a funny sort of crying. Well, they went home to their parents, who were pretty upset, and were just about to call yet one more meeting to discuss what was to be done with this little clown who wasn't really clown-like at all when the strangest thing happened.
Well, not all that strange, in a clown town. A giant anvil fell out of the sky, trapping that family in the house.
That sort of thing happened all the time in the town of clowns. And that's why not a whole lot ever got done there.
disclaimer:
The title refers (ah, relevance!) to our issues regarding a potential end, nos. 369 and 370. Of Sane Magazine. Perish the thought! What would a large group of people do with their Mondays?
So here we are. And there you are. Both of us sitting there... are you twiddling your thumbs?
At any rate. Keep on watching. Here we go. Again and again.
See you next week.
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