It's like the silent serial killers, everyone knows they're next door (and if you've been proactive enough to detective-style "scout out" sex offender websites, you know EXACTLY where they are in your neighborhood and you've eye balled them from a distance..) but the clowns, they walk amongst us everyday, in the hallways of our offices.
|Clowns, man. With or without makeup, they're still creepy.|
I worked for the circus. True story. I really did. For about 3 months, I worked for Feld Entertainment, Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey and Disney on Ice. It was totally great. My immediate supervisor and I had a personality conflict - meaning that I was much more interested in going about my work day in an un-orthodox manner and she was amm..err..ammm..(God, I wish there was a way to say exactly what you feel without not worrying if you could get sued...(like people actually read this blog anyway)). not cool like me..... but I digress. I have largely nothing but fantastic things to stay about my 3 month stint there and the other people I worked with. To put it professionally, the timing was not right, I was newly married and living the high flying life (for someone terrified of flying, not really a good mix), based out of Atlanta, working from home in Lexington, KY, was not ideal for me, or them, so we parted ways, sooner, rather than later.
Getting through a week on average where I flew four times and on one occasion had to hold a flight attendants hand on arrival one night because of bad weather and turbulence, would grab one of them pre-flight and ask for a bottle of wine, before first class and there was an extra $5 in it for her, along with talking incessently about my fear to random strangers that immediately regretted being sat next to me and wondered when it would be appropriate to tell me to shut up or to ask the attendant if they could switch seats away from the crazy.... which ALSO meant at least the equivalent of 4 bottles of wine and 8 Xanax, left me not only exhausted, excited and confused, but with a loss of my short term memory that I still to this day, can't seem to get back.
...What are we talking about again...?
I worked with Clowns. I had them in my office when the circus was on tour. I went drinking with them, in their half arsed attempt to wash the white cake make up and red lips and sad eyes from their faces, usually only ever one female clown and mostly male clowns. Funny how that seems to resonate in the real work place. Clowns are usually of the male disposition, the females, are largely, just bitches. And I know, I'm one of them. (the bitch kind) They acted like clowns when the lights came on, then they acted like serial killers when the lights went down. Clowns with and without their make up are just creepy people. Oh and they're also mainly Russian or Eastern European, so creepy clowns with inaudible accents with knives in their pockets (I'm making that part up but I swear I can see them there) is who they are. There's that one guy that's from the U.S., that was probably the class clown, never said a word to the moderately attractive girl he had a crush on all throughout High School, but could make everyone in the room laugh through slap stick comedy and just offend or make their math teacher sigh as she/he tried to get the attention back of the classroom on less exciting topics like fractions and algebra.
I work with clowns. Only these guys have no sense of humor. They actually aren't around to MAKE me laugh, but they do, in a pitiful kind of way. They're the Sad Face Clowns. Business is bad, let's make cuts. I'm half expecting one of them to walk in with a cheery yellow flower on his lapel, honk the horn he carries around and then squirt me in the eye with water with the "trick" flower. (Wow that whole sentence was a "that's what she said" arsenal!) The sad face clowns, you don't feel sorry for them, they're just pitiful.
The Happy Face Clowns. Both types of clowns are morons. I started to type "intellectually challenged", but isn't that the nice term we give to much cooler people who actually have a disability so we don't call them retards anymore? I didn't want to offend them. They too walk around the hallways, their curly red hair disguised under a fake black sharp business hair cut. Their tiny little bicycles are crammed into the secret compartment they have in the trunk of their brown buicks. Their large feet stuffed into normal looking shoes (think Roald Dahl Witches here...) and they have flesh colored make up on to hide their painted on black large cartoon looking eyelashes. They stride the hallways like they're walking into a crowd filled room ready for their first banana peel slip-and-fall opening act. They're mainly in management positions, and in charge of making decisions, which means a lack of, or the wrong ones. These clowns always get the high paying jobs. Why is that again? Probably because they're busy getting a cup of coffee which LOOKS like work, while I'm sitting here blogging. Dammit. I gotta work on my faking techniques.
|They SEEM Harmless....|
Working with clowns has it's challenges, since they aren't really around to make you laugh, but sometimes you just can't hold it in out of the sheer unbelievable nature of their statements. You've got to recognize them, in the hallways, their big yellow flower isn't going to give them away, they're smart enough to wear disguises to the office. You've got to be careful. But clowns are silly, before you need to detect them, they will make themselves known to you and you'll have to work on working with them. Just like you would when public speaking, imagine everyone naked, you'll have to gaze through their clown conversation they're holding with you and envision them juggling bowling pins, or better yet, chain saws and the juggling act going horribly wrong.
But you don't want to get distracted. Stay wary of the clowns, and don't ever feed them. That's what their storm-drain homes are for and lost puppies. Working with real clowns or real decorative fake clowns is what we all face everyday, elephants or not.
But I've got a pie.
I've got a pie with extra whip cream saved for the day I get to hurl it at a clown and get away with it. I'd jersey shore fist pump the sky with satisfaction that it hit not only hard, but rest in true self assuredness of the cream pie in facial orifices that will take weeks to get rid of the sour cream smell.
I've got a pie and an extra can of Reddiwhip. Just in case.