An ongoing evolutionary collaborative free-range Atkin's friendly, wardrobe malfunction-free, literary blog. Tastes like chicken, smells like pennies, thinks like Sloths. Hand me your cash, we need an editor.
Coulrophobic Pranksterism
A collaborative literary effort by Shirl, Gawk & Wonderbritches
She told me once that she disliked clowns, so I had to respect that. The big red shoes could be scary, and the mysterious bulge in the baggy spotted red and white trousers, well I could see how one would not want anything to do with that. I often wondered if her fear of clowns, or coulrophobia, was due to some type of bizarre childhood trauma, like finding out your parents bump uglies, or that Sea-Monkeys® don‘t look like the cartoons.
On several occasions through my childhood years, I had seriously considered raiding my piggy bank to purchase X-ray specs with the idea of being able to see behind the clown make up myself. That day came, so I smashed open the piggy bank with my sister's wooden leg, grabbed the $4.28 in pennies, nickels, dimes and a few random quarters, headed to “Newman’s Novelties” and decided to buy the colony of sea monkeys instead. I thought they would be more fun for my hard-scrounged money. Boy was I wrong, microscopic brine shrimp are boring. OH yeah, where was I, her fear of clowns and childhood trauma.
Yes, trauma, it could be movie induced, "IT" viewed at the wrong age could bring it about, or maybe the movie was "Poltergeist", hell even that one freaked me out, or some bizarre character in the corny TV show with those freaky Sleestaks, and the talking piccolo in H.R. Pufnstuf. Typical Saturday morning fodder for children created by pot-smoking art directors that were supplementing their diets with acid drops. Well, that would put the fear of most things into any child.
I idly read the paper while mulling over the X-ray specs, sea-monkeys and various backside of a Marvell comic book novelty items and sipping on my morning beverage, and I realized I have this evil compulsion to see exactly how extreme her clown phobia actually is. I turned to the classifieds, and perused the columns, one ad jumped out at me, "Got Midgets?" Inspiration hit me between the eyes and sweat seeped from my pores.
I put down my cafe con leche, reached in my pocket, whipped out my iPhone, and fingered out the phone number to inquire about the need for midgets. A woman with a rather scratchy voice, sounding almost like Dan Rather, answered the phone “Marge’s Midgets; Little People, Big Surprises! This is Betty, may I help you?”
"Yes, I need midgets; midgets willing to be clowns actually, for a practical joke on someone.”
“Practical jokes are one of our specialties.” Betty rasped, “What did you have in mind?”
“See, my brother owns a porta-potty franchise and keeps all his potty booth units in a warehouse on the Southside. I need a crew of midgets dressed as clowns to evade the security and crawl through the shafts to get into the warehouse so that we can scare I have this friend that works there and she is petrified by clowns.” I could barely contain my maniacal laughter; this was going to be legendary!
"You want to hire my midget clowns to evade security, crawl thru warehouse shafts, and scare the shit out of one of your friends?" Betty joined in my maniacal laughter, "Yes, I do believe I might be able to do even better. How about a girthy midget who does a Clarabelle the Clown impression playing the Ukulele with another Captain Kangaroo midget wrestling with a Howdy Doody midget and Freddy the Freeloader bumping and grinding to the tune of the Bee Gees?”
I snort-laughed until my almost lip prosthesis fell off into my Cafe Con Leche. Before I hung up, I agreed to meet Betty Bluetooth, the woman who sounded now more like Ted Koppel - so that I could see these aforementioned midget clowns and adopt them for this dastardly deed.
Betty's office was dirty and smelled of an odd combination of faint fish, midget foot rot, old lady perfume, and banana bread. It was a tear jerking assault on my olfactory senses for sure, but it is something I would endure for the prank of the century. The office itself site to behold the place smacked of debauchery. Chimes rang out over dingy doorways, low ceilings encrusted with food fight remnants, various bits of odd memorabilia, mementos scattered the place, and a defrocked parrot squawked "Hey midget! Hey midget, don't ya fidget!" from a cage in the corner.
A moo-moo clad Betty Bluetooth lumbered into the room followed by her midget cast. I was then quickly greeted by a pack of short, stocky, dwarfish men - all came in almost like out of a scene from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, minus the green skin tone, funky white English riding pants, pointy shoes and ice cream cone swirl hairdos. I immediately started humming "Sex Dwarf" by Soft Cell. Each introduced themselves as “Stinky“, “Surly,” “Baffo,” “Fifi” (he was the one that got to dress up like the girl), “Clappy,” “Slappy,” and “Jerky.” My brain reeled at the potential for midget clown phobia induced hysteria.
Ok, so maybe it was a bit mean and had the possibility of causing her to have a mental breakdown, but, hey its all for a laugh right? "Lets get down to details shall we?" Betty rasped, settling herself behind her desk as she indicated a torn and tattered chair for me and the troupe settled onto the various mini furniture pieces around the room. We began to plan, a simple plan really, just have all the midgets waiting in a limo with smoked windows and tell my unsuspecting friend that she is going to a mansion for an episode of “The Bachelor.”
This particular episode of the Bachelor, the volunteered 'victim' of reality TV idiocy, which happens to also be my brother who owns the porta-potty franchise will be greeting this group of over glossed up plastic barbi-sheeple transparent sound-byte idiot-savantresses outside of his warehouse. The limo will open up and all these midgets will pop out one by one, wearing clown outfits....
Fast forward to the prank itself:
My phobic friend, stands among the barbi-wanna-bes as the limo pulls up in front of the warehouse (her place of employment), as the first clown gets out of the limo she takes a step back, the second, she takes another step back again you can see the fear building, with each clown she steps further back, and becomes more agitated. By the time the 5th clown steps out she makes a break for it and runs into the warehouse, the clowns pursue her thru the stacks and rows of porta potties shouting, "I LOVE YOU!" and "Marry ME!" My friend goes into complete hysterics run that rival any horror movie, her shrill screams echoing off the plastic and metal at an ear splitting decibel level. One cuts her off and yells BOO...she fainted and fell into the sewage tank and drown.
It was a good prank good prank gone horribly wrong, and that is why I am in jail with my midget pals. Yes, I am their bitch now.
A collaborative literary effort by Shirl, Gawk & Wonderbritches
She told me once that she disliked clowns, so I had to respect that. The big red shoes could be scary, and the mysterious bulge in the baggy spotted red and white trousers, well I could see how one would not want anything to do with that. I often wondered if her fear of clowns, or coulrophobia, was due to some type of bizarre childhood trauma, like finding out your parents bump uglies, or that Sea-Monkeys® don‘t look like the cartoons.
On several occasions through my childhood years, I had seriously considered raiding my piggy bank to purchase X-ray specs with the idea of being able to see behind the clown make up myself. That day came, so I smashed open the piggy bank with my sister's wooden leg, grabbed the $4.28 in pennies, nickels, dimes and a few random quarters, headed to “Newman’s Novelties” and decided to buy the colony of sea monkeys instead. I thought they would be more fun for my hard-scrounged money. Boy was I wrong, microscopic brine shrimp are boring. OH yeah, where was I, her fear of clowns and childhood trauma.
Yes, trauma, it could be movie induced, "IT" viewed at the wrong age could bring it about, or maybe the movie was "Poltergeist", hell even that one freaked me out, or some bizarre character in the corny TV show with those freaky Sleestaks, and the talking piccolo in H.R. Pufnstuf. Typical Saturday morning fodder for children created by pot-smoking art directors that were supplementing their diets with acid drops. Well, that would put the fear of most things into any child.
I idly read the paper while mulling over the X-ray specs, sea-monkeys and various backside of a Marvell comic book novelty items and sipping on my morning beverage, and I realized I have this evil compulsion to see exactly how extreme her clown phobia actually is. I turned to the classifieds, and perused the columns, one ad jumped out at me, "Got Midgets?" Inspiration hit me between the eyes and sweat seeped from my pores.
I put down my cafe con leche, reached in my pocket, whipped out my iPhone, and fingered out the phone number to inquire about the need for midgets. A woman with a rather scratchy voice, sounding almost like Dan Rather, answered the phone “Marge’s Midgets; Little People, Big Surprises! This is Betty, may I help you?”
"Yes, I need midgets; midgets willing to be clowns actually, for a practical joke on someone.”
“Practical jokes are one of our specialties.” Betty rasped, “What did you have in mind?”
“See, my brother owns a porta-potty franchise and keeps all his potty booth units in a warehouse on the Southside. I need a crew of midgets dressed as clowns to evade the security and crawl through the shafts to get into the warehouse so that we can scare I have this friend that works there and she is petrified by clowns.” I could barely contain my maniacal laughter; this was going to be legendary!
"You want to hire my midget clowns to evade security, crawl thru warehouse shafts, and scare the shit out of one of your friends?" Betty joined in my maniacal laughter, "Yes, I do believe I might be able to do even better. How about a girthy midget who does a Clarabelle the Clown impression playing the Ukulele with another Captain Kangaroo midget wrestling with a Howdy Doody midget and Freddy the Freeloader bumping and grinding to the tune of the Bee Gees?”
I snort-laughed until my almost lip prosthesis fell off into my Cafe Con Leche. Before I hung up, I agreed to meet Betty Bluetooth, the woman who sounded now more like Ted Koppel - so that I could see these aforementioned midget clowns and adopt them for this dastardly deed.
Betty's office was dirty and smelled of an odd combination of faint fish, midget foot rot, old lady perfume, and banana bread. It was a tear jerking assault on my olfactory senses for sure, but it is something I would endure for the prank of the century. The office itself site to behold the place smacked of debauchery. Chimes rang out over dingy doorways, low ceilings encrusted with food fight remnants, various bits of odd memorabilia, mementos scattered the place, and a defrocked parrot squawked "Hey midget! Hey midget, don't ya fidget!" from a cage in the corner.
A moo-moo clad Betty Bluetooth lumbered into the room followed by her midget cast. I was then quickly greeted by a pack of short, stocky, dwarfish men - all came in almost like out of a scene from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, minus the green skin tone, funky white English riding pants, pointy shoes and ice cream cone swirl hairdos. I immediately started humming "Sex Dwarf" by Soft Cell. Each introduced themselves as “Stinky“, “Surly,” “Baffo,” “Fifi” (he was the one that got to dress up like the girl), “Clappy,” “Slappy,” and “Jerky.” My brain reeled at the potential for midget clown phobia induced hysteria.
Ok, so maybe it was a bit mean and had the possibility of causing her to have a mental breakdown, but, hey its all for a laugh right? "Lets get down to details shall we?" Betty rasped, settling herself behind her desk as she indicated a torn and tattered chair for me and the troupe settled onto the various mini furniture pieces around the room. We began to plan, a simple plan really, just have all the midgets waiting in a limo with smoked windows and tell my unsuspecting friend that she is going to a mansion for an episode of “The Bachelor.”
This particular episode of the Bachelor, the volunteered 'victim' of reality TV idiocy, which happens to also be my brother who owns the porta-potty franchise will be greeting this group of over glossed up plastic barbi-sheeple transparent sound-byte idiot-savantresses outside of his warehouse. The limo will open up and all these midgets will pop out one by one, wearing clown outfits....
Fast forward to the prank itself:
 |
It was a good prank good prank gone horribly wrong, and that is why I am in jail with my midget pals. Yes, I am their bitch now.
0 Responses to “”
Post a Comment