Tag Archives: clown

Clown

Clown: (n) a comic entertainer

There are actually three types of clowns, offering varying degrees of danger.

Yes–clowns are dangerous. They forewarn of outrageous comedy but soon become common, needing to push the envelope, opening the
door to all sorts of excesses.

Clown 1: Often referred to as the “class clown,” although he or she can be quite classless.

This is a person who feels it is their job to bring a giggle, even if a sigh or tears is required. He or she is quite angry if you suggest that the insertion of levity is poorly timed. And God forbid that you would ever try to take away their First Amendment right to be funny. After all, what gives us the authority to determine what is comical as opposed to offensive? (Wait! Isn’t that what being mature is all about?)

Clown 2: The Classic Clown, wearing a red nose and floppy shoes, to warn those around him or her of a calamity of errors, which is supposed to be interpreted through the slapstick antics, as side-splitting.

Physical comedy is an instinct to laugh at another human’s pain. When stated that way, people wrinkle their brow and suggest that you’re an old fuddy-duddy.

Clowns have to work too hard to get the job done. This would be similar to a fire-fighter attending a backyard barbecue just in case a three-alarm blaze might break out.  And finally…

Clown 3: These are the people in government, religion and business who have discovered they have gotten away with some egregious action, and nobody has stopped them, so they continue their path of errancy, adding on boxes of insult to the shipment of injury.

“Since I got by with THAT, and nobody challenged me, I wonder if I can do THIS.”

These clowns are particularly annoying because they don’t sit in a classroom, nor do they wear fright wigs. (Well, at least most of them don’t.) What they do is fit in–while not fitting in at all.

They take a code of ethics and turn it into a paper airplane, which they toss through the air to prove how free-wheeling they truly are.

They question values which have proven to be gold, and pretend they are nothing but yellow bricks.

As you can see, all three clown roles seem to have more drawbacks than positive contributions. Yet we continue to allow them to exist under the canopy, “we all need to laugh.”

Actually, we all need good cheer, which means most of the time, if we’re going to mature, we should be laughing at ourselves, not at the pratfalls of others or the decimation of common sense.

 

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Buffoon

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Buffoon: (n) a ridiculous but amusing person; a clown.

Even though clowns can be creepy, bizarre, outdated, corny and certainly over-dressed, they do offer us a warning:

“Everything that’s about to come out of my mouth is passing through excessive grease paint.”

It’s a good thing.

What is not a good thing is to be uncertain about when we are listening to a buffoon–attributing some value, intelligence or Dictionary Bweight to the words.

That’s completely unfair.

Sometimes it’s not enough to say, “I’m kidding” at the end of a nasty statement. (Like “LOL.”)

The thought comes to our minds, “Were they kidding, or just covering their butt by pretending it’s a joke, masking hidden animosity?”

I just feel it’s my responsibility to let you good readers know when I’m being a buffoon. It happens all the time.

I often choose to be a buffoon just because I’m nervous about the subject matter and don’t really know what I’m talking about. It’s just easier to joke than provide answers.

But I do want to put a request in to all politicians, ministers, Hollywood actors and school teachers. Please give us a heads up when you don’t really know what you’re talking about and there’s a high possibility what’s about to come forth just might be the ramblings of a buffoon.

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Big Top

Big Top: (n) the main tent in a circus.

Dictionary B

The circus smells like elephant poop.

That’s my main memory from the only time I went there at twelve years of age.

I had this strange sensation of smelling pachyderm droppings while simultaneously eating cotton candy. It was a disturbing mixture.

I was a chubby fellow, so when the clowns came out to perform, one of the jokesters targeted me, using mime to imitate my tubbiness, to the delight of children nearby. Obviously lacking some training in sensitivity, the bozo continued to do so until the laughter subsided.

So to a certain degree, I was very happy when the elephants arrived and I was no longer the largest in the tent.

The circus was impressive.

There were things flying in the air, fire spewing from the mouths of entertainers, and all sorts of horses running in circles with brightly-colored saddles, which were ever-so-faintly fading through years of use.

I worked really hard to be a fan.

I oohed and aahed on cue, making it clear to all my friends around me that I was an appreciator.

But as I left the tent, even though I was just a kid, I sensed that these professionals were working awfully hard to make life fun. Matter of fact, when I hear people draw the parallel that “life is a circus,” I think to myself, no, it’s not.

Actually, our goal is to make sure that life doesn’t become a funeral … by adding just enough clowns, dancing monkeys and corn dogs.

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Appendage

dictionary with letter A

Appendage (n.): a thing attached to or projecting from something larger or more important.

After writing for more years than I dare remember, I often find myself guilty of becoming either too introspective or a bit boggled with silliness.

Not that I have any problem with introspection or silliness for that matter, but as a writer, your goal is to have readers and not just accumulation of work.

One school of thought is that most people want to read something deep and profound while another clown college contends that everything must be giggly and entertaining.

I have come to the conclusion that the true test of writing is working from an idea that is important, and using the best tools possible to carve out a message.

Maybe that’s the problem in our society today–we’ve forgotten what’s important. So what we have is a bunch of dangling appendages seeking homes on which to attach.

If all the ideas proffered in our time were traced back to an origin, they would often be considered homeless.

Therefore everything I write, feel and try to do is grounded in three central principles, and then I allow the ideas to grow like appendages from them:

  1. People are the closest thing to God we have on Earth.
  2. God is the closest thing to hope that we can muster.
  3. So we must muster the ability to get along with people so that we better understand God.

Everything else I do ends up being appendages to these three central themes. Sometimes it’s funny; sometimes it’s serious. Sometimes it’s confrontational, but it is never jaded.

For after all, the day I cease to believe in these three ideas that are important, everything I do will be a mere appendage–unattached to my own reality.

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix