Timmy Loved Clowns
By way of explaining the address of this blog, here is a summary of the amazing Timmy Loved Clowns joke I was told for the first time by Pat Blanchfield, a prince whose purple reign should last as long as he so desires.
A more substantive post will follow:
Timmy loved clowns. From as early on as he could remember, he couldn't get enough of them - clown clothes, clown wallpaper, clown bed linens, etc. When he was seven, he got an ear infection - a particularly bad one, as these things go - and refused to be treated until his parents told him pennicilin was "clown approved." It comes as little surprise, then, that when the circus came to Timmy's small town for the first time in his young life, he made sure his parents got him the first tickets sold, and that he got there for the first seats, front row center.
The circus started off, as all circuses do, with zebras. Then a steady stream of other attractions - lions, acrobats, flame eaters, elephants, rare and exotic birds from South America, but no clowns. The kids around him were entranced with the show, but Timmy was growing impatient - circuses had clowns. That's what circuses have. Where were they? Just when Timmy was reaching a state of anxiousness unhealthy for children of any age, the lights went out in the big tent. As an anxious hush washed over the crowd, mad honking could be heard from off-tent. A spotlight shown on the performance entrance, and an impossibly small car came shooting out into the performance space, driving in circles around the track a few times before coming to stop near the center tent pole. For a moment - silence. Then as impossible as the car was, a more impossible amount of clowns came pouring out. As may be predicted, the crowd, and Timmy, went nuts, as the clowns cavorted their way into the crowd, producing balloon animals and smiles aplenty. One clown, the last to exit the car, stayed in the ring and walked to a microphone set up near TImmy's section of the audience. He was taller than the other clowns, a little older, with bright red hair and a red nose - he was easily the most simply decorated of the lot.
"I need a volunteer."
Now every kid - and more than a couple adults - in the audience had their hands up in a second, but there wasn't a chance Timmy was going to let this opportunity go by. He caught the clown's gaze and held on like a drowning man hanging on to a lifesaving piece of driftwood.
"You there, in the front."
Timmy was out like a shot, clambering over the railing and across the gravel to the microphone and a man he already felt comfortable with, having seem him every night in his dreams for weeks before the circus.
"Little man, what's your name?
"It's Timmy, sir. My name's Timmy." This was really happening.
"Well, Timmy - I need a hand. Can you help me?"
"Yes I can."
"Will you answer my questions truthfully?"
"Yes. All of them."
"Good. First question: are you a horse's ear?"
"No, no sir, I am not. I am a little boy."
"Are you a horse's eye?"
"No." This wasn't what Timmy had been expecting.
"Are you a horse's nose?"
"No, no, no!"
"Well then, you must be a horse's ASS!"
For years - 24, to be exact - the laughter and the pain of betrayal followed Timmy around like a lost, belligerent puppy. He refused to sleep in his room that night until his parents ripped down and burned all of his clown memorabilia. Years of therapy, four years away from home in college, a wife, a young child - these things helped to quell the terrible hurt and anger Timmy harbored within himself, or at least helped bury it as he tried to get on with his new, empty, clown-free life.
It wasn't until he saw the ad, the same ad he'd seen as a child, heralding the return of the circus to Timmy's hometown, that it all came together. Timmy needed to get revenge if he had any hope of becoming Tim, a whole, functional human being. He needed to make things right, to make sure no child would suffer his fate. He needed to go to the circus.
It was just like before - he was the first person to buy tickets, the first to get a seat - frontrow, center - for the show. The circus too was familiar - zebras, lions, acrobats, a snake charmer, a bear who could do math. The same sense of apprehension crept up on the irrational side of Timmy, the side that he would need to pull off what was to come.
Finally it came - the lights went down, the manic honking, the ridiculous, mirthless automobile. It was exactly like before.
Right down to the tall, old, dignifed clown, the leader of the group, it now became clear to Timmy. The clown walked out to the microphone stand, perhaps a lttle slower than he had almost a quarter decade before. But the words were the same.
"I need a volunteer."
Timmy didn't wait to be called out - he leapt the barricade and trotted out to clown, his face expressionless. The clown was clearly a little off-guard - he didn't choose adults usually, it seemed - but he was a pro, and went along with it.
"Sir, can I ask you your name?"
"Sure can. It's Timmy." He attempted a smile, but it was useless. There was no happiness in Timmy. Not for a long time.
"Pleased to meet you, Timmy. Would you mind answering some questions honestly for me?"
"Absolutely. Absolutely truthful."
"Okay then. Are you a horse's ear?"
"No, no sir, I am not. I am a little boy." He shouldn't have said that. That was weird. It didn't matter, though.
" Are you a horse's eye?" The clown was visibly nervous now. This guy's a lunatic.
"No."
"Are you a horse's ear?"
"0 for 3."
" Well then, you must be a horse's ASS!"
And it was perfect. Timmy looked the clown directly in the eye, his fists pressing painfully against his sides:
"Fuck you, Clown."
*** *** ***
Told properly - i.e. told drunk - this joke can be stretched out to a good thirty minutes and will, I guarantee you, earn you some play.
A more substantive post will follow:
Timmy loved clowns. From as early on as he could remember, he couldn't get enough of them - clown clothes, clown wallpaper, clown bed linens, etc. When he was seven, he got an ear infection - a particularly bad one, as these things go - and refused to be treated until his parents told him pennicilin was "clown approved." It comes as little surprise, then, that when the circus came to Timmy's small town for the first time in his young life, he made sure his parents got him the first tickets sold, and that he got there for the first seats, front row center.
The circus started off, as all circuses do, with zebras. Then a steady stream of other attractions - lions, acrobats, flame eaters, elephants, rare and exotic birds from South America, but no clowns. The kids around him were entranced with the show, but Timmy was growing impatient - circuses had clowns. That's what circuses have. Where were they? Just when Timmy was reaching a state of anxiousness unhealthy for children of any age, the lights went out in the big tent. As an anxious hush washed over the crowd, mad honking could be heard from off-tent. A spotlight shown on the performance entrance, and an impossibly small car came shooting out into the performance space, driving in circles around the track a few times before coming to stop near the center tent pole. For a moment - silence. Then as impossible as the car was, a more impossible amount of clowns came pouring out. As may be predicted, the crowd, and Timmy, went nuts, as the clowns cavorted their way into the crowd, producing balloon animals and smiles aplenty. One clown, the last to exit the car, stayed in the ring and walked to a microphone set up near TImmy's section of the audience. He was taller than the other clowns, a little older, with bright red hair and a red nose - he was easily the most simply decorated of the lot.
"I need a volunteer."
Now every kid - and more than a couple adults - in the audience had their hands up in a second, but there wasn't a chance Timmy was going to let this opportunity go by. He caught the clown's gaze and held on like a drowning man hanging on to a lifesaving piece of driftwood.
"You there, in the front."
Timmy was out like a shot, clambering over the railing and across the gravel to the microphone and a man he already felt comfortable with, having seem him every night in his dreams for weeks before the circus.
"Little man, what's your name?
"It's Timmy, sir. My name's Timmy." This was really happening.
"Well, Timmy - I need a hand. Can you help me?"
"Yes I can."
"Will you answer my questions truthfully?"
"Yes. All of them."
"Good. First question: are you a horse's ear?"
"No, no sir, I am not. I am a little boy."
"Are you a horse's eye?"
"No." This wasn't what Timmy had been expecting.
"Are you a horse's nose?"
"No, no, no!"
"Well then, you must be a horse's ASS!"
For years - 24, to be exact - the laughter and the pain of betrayal followed Timmy around like a lost, belligerent puppy. He refused to sleep in his room that night until his parents ripped down and burned all of his clown memorabilia. Years of therapy, four years away from home in college, a wife, a young child - these things helped to quell the terrible hurt and anger Timmy harbored within himself, or at least helped bury it as he tried to get on with his new, empty, clown-free life.
It wasn't until he saw the ad, the same ad he'd seen as a child, heralding the return of the circus to Timmy's hometown, that it all came together. Timmy needed to get revenge if he had any hope of becoming Tim, a whole, functional human being. He needed to make things right, to make sure no child would suffer his fate. He needed to go to the circus.
It was just like before - he was the first person to buy tickets, the first to get a seat - frontrow, center - for the show. The circus too was familiar - zebras, lions, acrobats, a snake charmer, a bear who could do math. The same sense of apprehension crept up on the irrational side of Timmy, the side that he would need to pull off what was to come.
Finally it came - the lights went down, the manic honking, the ridiculous, mirthless automobile. It was exactly like before.
Right down to the tall, old, dignifed clown, the leader of the group, it now became clear to Timmy. The clown walked out to the microphone stand, perhaps a lttle slower than he had almost a quarter decade before. But the words were the same.
"I need a volunteer."
Timmy didn't wait to be called out - he leapt the barricade and trotted out to clown, his face expressionless. The clown was clearly a little off-guard - he didn't choose adults usually, it seemed - but he was a pro, and went along with it.
"Sir, can I ask you your name?"
"Sure can. It's Timmy." He attempted a smile, but it was useless. There was no happiness in Timmy. Not for a long time.
"Pleased to meet you, Timmy. Would you mind answering some questions honestly for me?"
"Absolutely. Absolutely truthful."
"Okay then. Are you a horse's ear?"
"No, no sir, I am not. I am a little boy." He shouldn't have said that. That was weird. It didn't matter, though.
" Are you a horse's eye?" The clown was visibly nervous now. This guy's a lunatic.
"No."
"Are you a horse's ear?"
"0 for 3."
" Well then, you must be a horse's ASS!"
And it was perfect. Timmy looked the clown directly in the eye, his fists pressing painfully against his sides:
"Fuck you, Clown."
*** *** ***
Told properly - i.e. told drunk - this joke can be stretched out to a good thirty minutes and will, I guarantee you, earn you some play.
posted by Jeremy at 5:18 PM
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