Stu González puts the oral tradition to typography

The Man and The Clown

An Adaptation by Stuart González

Stop me if you've heard this one.

Once upon a time "the man" had everything. Yes, well, at least in the American sense of the word. Fuck it, in the WESTERN sense of the word. The great job. The hot wife. The two and a half kids. The home on a cul de sac in the burbs. The golf club membership. All that dumb ass shit. Hell, "the man" had enough clout in his "neck of the woods" to not even have to talk his way out of a speeding ticket because when the fuzz saw his face, they knew it was the face of someone special. Someone muy importante. Entonces, they had to get the fuck out of the way.


"The man" never met a shrimp cocktail he didn't like or a tax loophole he couldn't exploit. He would dance on top of his remarkably clean desk with glee as his bank account swelled by the hour. He once came home and told his wife, in front of their two young children, about the massive boner he got while he was in a meeting about "monopolies." She giggled at his impropriety and winked in his ear. He was going to fuck the shit out of her after the little bed wetters were herded to their cozy little rooms with their HDtvs and their video games and their access to internet pornography.

At his wife's request, during sex all "the man" wore were ties. She was obsessed with Chippendales and he was obsessed with his own success. For him, a good tie denoted his level of achievement. It also gave her something to choke him with. He liked that. Being asphyxiated while he crashed into that space between her thighs gluttonously.

"The man" liked playing games with the poor people downtown. Those fucking beggars, they'd solicit him for money and he would tell them straight-faced that they had to dance a jig. But it couldn't be something wino-ey and stupid. It had to be a traditional Irish jig. He provided them with tunes, humming them tunelessly, and they would try their best to impress this oh-so-important man. After they finished and received ovations from onlookers, he would give them a quarter and implore them to not spend it all in one place.

Of course he was booed by the crowd and cursed vehemently by the sensitive wino who desired little more than to acquire the couple of bucks necessary to remain in booze heaven. "The man" laughed all the way to his office. "The man" spent most days in his office, alone, watching Sports Center (he was a big Lakers fan, in fact, he liked any team that was always winning or at the pinnacle of their respective histories) or playing solitaire on his computer. That is, when he wasn't getting boners in meetings and thinking of wasteful ways of spending his ill-gotten lucre.

Sometimes "the man" was invited to "golf" with other successful "men," but he usually made some excuse to not show. The only thing he hated more than people who weren't as successful as himself were those who were successfully equal or greater to him. It really pissed him off that others shared in his ambitions and even dared to be better. So if he did deign himself to such appearances, he would usually do his damnedest to berate his opponent. Or his opponents' wives and children.

"The man" liked being on the gifting end of good tongue lashings. He also liked "ad hominems" and "straw men." He once accused one of his obese opponents of being lazy and thus ill-equipped for the kind of success he miraculously had. "How does one become rich by sitting around huffing down cheeseburgers and soda?" he wondered aloud as he teed-off into a lake.

"It's glandular, you fucking asshole!" the obese man screamed.

"Glandular. Right. I'll bet... and I'm sure you'll blame my shitty form for that tee."

"It's woefully bad."

"I have tennis elbow, good sir."

Enter the Clown

Despite "the man's" protestations, his FEARS, he promised his young daughter that for her birthday this year he would take them to the circus. So take them he did. They piled into the SUV and drove downtown for a day of fun for the kids, and what he knew would seem a lifetime of misery for him.

His wife teased him playfully about his absurd fear of clowns. "Absurd," he snapped. "NONSENSE. My fear of clowns is what got me to where I am today." Emboldened by his wife's imbecilic assertion, he cut off an old lady in a Buick and parked proudly, forcefully into a parking space that was too small for his SUV (it took up half of the space next to it). His daughter told him that "the clown" was supposed to be the world's funniest.

"Clowns aren't funny, mademoiselle," he corrected. "Clowns are the American equivalent of untouchables. They are sad, ridiculous creatures that should indeed be laughed off when they refer to themselves as human beings." Upon hearing this, her eyes began to tear up. He entreated his young one not to cry lest she embarrass him and all he has worked for, making it clear that he was not in the least pleased to be in such environs.

The wife corralled the children to her arms protectively. "The man" huffed a little but accepted his situation. After all, this discomfort, he was certain, would pay even more dividends (in more ways than one) once the day was done. The hour's imposition could do him wonders.

"The man" and his wife and brood took their great seats, silently waiting for the show to begin. The lights went down, the announcer's voice boomed throughout the great civic center, built on the backs of the poor, for the rich, much to "the man's" glee, and the show began.

"First, the majestic Mickey's Donkeys," The announcer's bass-y voice rumbled.

"The man" sighed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Then the announcer sing-songingly marked the arrival of the elephants and jugglers and firebreathers. His children squealed with delight as peanuts were passed out to the crowd so that they might be able to feed the beasts. Still, "the man" was unimpressed. In fact, he was bored. He began searching for porn on his mobile web phone.

Soon the arena went dark again, the only light emitting from thousands of cell phones amongst the throngs.

The announcer's voice bludgeoned the ears of the mob once more. "Ladies and gentlemen! It is my ever groveling pleasure to now give you, Cuddles the Clown!" The massive arena exploded with applause and cheer. A single spotlight shone at the center of the stage and Cuddles coyly stepped into it. His hands were behind his back. He looked around. Mucho Silencio.

The hushed crowd was so because word had it that Cuddles often opened his performances by singling out a member of the audience and asked them an incredibly difficult or embarrassing question. "The man" continued to fiddle with his phone as Cuddles scanned the gaggles for his victim. He spun round in his spotlight, finger pointing to the stands. He stopped, snapped and the spotlight disappeared and the lights came on. His finger was pointed directly at "the man."

Unbeknownst, "the man" continued to rifle through videos on tube8. Everyone was watching him. His wife nudged him and he looked up.

"You!" Cuddles shouted.

"Me?"

"Yes, sir. You!"

"I am too good for this," "the man" says, putting his eyes back to his phone.

"Okay then, sir, then may I ask you, are you the front end of a horse's ass?"

Everyone laughs. "The man" was perplexed.

"Huh?"

"Sir, are you the front end of a horse's ass?"

"What? No!"

Everyone laughs.

"Fair enough," Cuddles said, rubbing his chin. "Then sir, is it true that you are in fact the rear end of a horse's ass?"

"What the hell are you babbling about?"

"Then this is also a 'no.'" Cuddles asserted.

"Correct."

"Sir, given your previous responses, I have no other course of action than to assume that since you are not the front nor are you the rear end of a horse's ass, that you are simply, inevitably, the totality of a horse's ass!"

"The man's" jaw dropped, the crowd exploded with riotous laughter, and the lights went down. The crowd chanted "horse's ass! horse's ass!" in the direction of "the man." He wanted only at that moment to retreat into himself, so demoralized was he by Cuddles' probing, prodding, absurd line of questioning.

He ran out of the arena in tears.

From The Man to The Erstwhile Man

Only days after his encounter with Cuddles the Clown, "the man" lost everything. His job. His hot wife, who took the children with her. His home on the cul de sac. His country club membership. He owed alimony and back taxes. All because of fuckhead the clown. That was how "the erstwhile man" now referred to his new arch-nemesis.

At first, he plotted to kill Cuddles, but killing a clown is heady business. "The erstwhile man" would've had to do that sort of dirty work on his own. No mob in the country hated a funny man. So he had to bide his time. He had to figure out another way to destroy the clown. Every night, as he slept uncomfortably on his mother's fold-out couch, he fought the urge to check down all the ways in which he could mentally massacre the fucker. He needed to sleep, though. The bags under his eyes were beginning to make his head tilt slightly ahead of him.

"The erstwhile man" made do with his meager monthly wages from the local Goodwill, folding clothing and gathering baskets from the far reaches of the parking lot. But he hated it. It was the essence of death to a man used to so much leisure; TANTO PODER. It made him want to use all the grocery money he earned to buy a gun, go to a park, find a nice tree, and blow his fucking cerebellum all over the place.

He confessed to his mother over breakfast that he was in the grips of a deep depression. This fuckhead the clown guy had ruined everything. And for what? For a fucking laugh?

She encouraged him to let it all out, and he began to cry like a small child. Unbridled and without dignity, he shoved his breakfast away and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Moments later his life-giver knocked softly on the door, calling his name repeatedly, urging him to keep his chin up.

This kind of attitude toward the utter poverty of his existence made him want to kill her instead. But he could never do that. Matricide would not do anything to harm Cuddles. It would only unburden “the erstwhile man” of a minor annoyance, and that relief would later turn to even more essence extinguishing depression. Because he loved his mother. Immensely.

One morning he awakened to find a newspaper clipping on his stomach. He lifted it to his weary face and read it. The circus was coming to town. Cuddles was back. This would be his chance to redeem himself. He had two weeks to mentally prepare.

He took notes, practiced with notecards, studied the best stand-up comedians on those local late night shows. Wit would be his savior, he was certain. Perhaps he could hand that undeservingly high and mighty clown a deathblow. THE deathblow. To end all other deathblows. In the history of deathblows.

So "the erstwhile man" saved up every penny and bought a ticket to the circus. He camped out to be one of the first. The next day, he eagerly grabbed his seat. He even bought popcorn. He'd resolved to slam it in his face triumphantly, T.O style once dealing the aforementioned "deathblow."

The lights went down and the announcers voice rumbled the arena once again. The show opening Mickey's Donkeys had been replaced by the Camel Cigs Camels. "The erstwhile man" sat on the edge of his seat, biting his nails. He was expectant, but also doubting that he would be fortunate enough to get a second shot at fuckhead.

The announcer then moved on to the elephants and jugglers and firebreathers. "The erstwhile man" was getting annoyed. Fuck, bring out the stupid fucking clown already, he thought. The lights fell out again and the announcer's voice growled, the speakers crackled, as he was taking his sweet ass time, begging the crowd to partake in the wonderful concessions. People moved by the light of their cell phones.

Then, the spotlight. Silencio. Una otra vez. Cuddles the Clown trucked into view. An explosion of applause and hooting commenced.

"Introducing, once again, the man of the night, Cuddles the Clown, in all his humorous glory!" the announcer beamed.

"The erstwhile man" stood and clapped, cheering loudly, trying to cancel out the crowd. Cuddles put his finger to his lips in a shushing motion. He pointed into the crowd and spun. He came to a stop, nearly falling over his huge feet. He was pointing at "the erstwhile man." ¡Que Suerte! The lights came up and Cuddles called to him.

"You sir! I have one question for you!"

"Bring it on, Cuddles!"

"Are you... the front end... of a horse's ass?"

He stood to his feet, "the erstwhile man," and he stammered. "Huh?"

"No?" Cuddles retreated. "Well then, are you, dear sir, the rear end of a horse's ass?"

"You gotta be kidding me!" "the erstwhile man" screamed.

"I assure you, I am not. And I will add... more appropriately I will assert, that since you are not the front nor are you the rear end of a horse's ass, that you are, in essence, the wholeness of a horse's ass!"

"Ahhhh!"

Once again, "the erstwhile man" had been bested by the clown. The masses exploded into laughter. The lights died and so it was once again. "The erstwhile man" stormed out of the arena and into the streets of the city. Screaming. Crying. Falling to the concrete in the fetal position, sobbing like the Patriots had just blown a perfect season.

The Erstwhile Man Descends.

It became tragic for this man, this erstwhile man, who once had everything. He now, quite literally, had nothing. His mother passed weeks after the second Cuddles debacle, and her home was foreclosed by the very obese man whom he'd offended lo those many months prior. His kids wouldn't even speak to him. He walked the streets, dirty, hungry, doing jigs for quarters, sometimes even acquiescing to selling his own body.

This was the lifestyle that, as "the man" he'd so derisively objected to. Now he was a product. Soon to be the poster boy. When he wasn't tricking himself out for the benefit of some hapless pimp, he was hanging around the library taking bum showers in the men's room and using the internet access computers in feeble attempts to e-mail his ex-wife, who had stopped agreeing to charges on pay-phone calls.

Life couldn't get any worse for this "erstwhile man." The fucking clown ruined everything. Todo fue follado. He couldn't even afford the fucking gun now. He would beg people who crossed him in the streets to put him out of his misery. No one would miss him. He was simply going through the motions. Breathing. Existing. Uselessly.

One night as he tried to catch some z's in an alley, as he was wrapping a piss soaked and dried entertainment section across his torso, he noticed an ad for the circus. It startled him. Cuddles would be making his final appearance in town. He would be retiring the next summer. Briefly "the erstwhile man" contemplated a final showdown with the fuckhead. He then shook his head and took to what he called sleep.

But it wasn't sleep. It was all a fucking nightmare. He got up, the pissy paper in his grasp, and walked the dark AM streets. Until sunlight he stalked, looking for someone who might aid him in procuring tickets to the dance. He found one taker in a young comedian who claimed that he knew the one weakness of a clown. The greatest comeback ever. The heckle. The heckle to rival all heckles. The answer to fuck all answers.

And so it was.

The comedian bought them both nosebleed seats to the circus. They filed in with the rest of the proletariat. Took their seats. The arena went dark. The announcer started shit off with his baritone voice. The Trix Bunnies replaced the Camel Cigs Camels who had replaced the Mickey's Donkeys.

"Here come the elephants, aren't they pink and enormous?" the announcer cried.

Then came the jugglers and the firebreathers. They even added a bearded lady and a man with tattoos all over his body. The freakshow had come in full force. The comedian looked at the grizzled "erstwhile man" and put his finger to his lips in a shushing fashion. As if to say, "you're okay, my friend. I got this.”

But erstwhile had his doubts. What if this time he wasn't selected by a random point of the index finger?

The arena went dark. The announcer begged the audience to buy, buy, buy, the capitalist fuckers. We're selling shit! You fucking buy it and you fucking like it! Bright cell phone screens blurred toward exits.

When they returned, all that was bright was the spotlight in the middle of the stage. The announcer welcomed back all the lovely consumers. He even congratulated them on their buying power. He asked for silence y le dieron.

Cuddles stepped into the spotlight and played shy. The crowd ate it up. Laughing, cheering, giving applause. He signed for silence. He received it. He shot his index finger into the crowd, spun round and round, and stopped. He snapped, the lights brightened, and amazingly, "the erstwhile man" was on the business end. He stood. He couldn't believe it.

The comedian stood as well. He patted "erstwhile" on the back and deferred attention to Cuddles.

"Hello sir!"

"Hello Cuddles!"

"I only have one simple question for you."

"I would be delighted to answer you!"

"Tell me, are you the fr..."

At this moment the comedian shouts down to Cuddles,

FUCK YOU CLOWN!