I was merely seven years old when I discovered what my passion was in life, at the Bay-Rama parade. I was offered a shake by a man with ill-fitting overalls, comically large yellow shoes, and a red nose. As I accepted the offer for the shake and reached out for it on the tray, the man pulled back and began to gyrate his hips in an exaggerated, circular motion, simultaneously exclaiming “woaaaahh!” The crowd was overwhelmed with laughter. Roscoe, his name was.
He was a clown.
Although I didn’t know much at this point in my life, I knew one thing: I wanted to be that guy.
I’ve been looking up the greats day and night. Roscoe. Bozo. Ronald McDonald. I researched ‘em all! As I began my expedition here at Michigan State, I spent hours on end reading books on clown theory and the sociology of humor. It’s my last year here, but I have a problem: you.
It was the twenty-ninth of August this year that the first one of you “killer clowns” was found at an apartment complex in South Carolina. Since then, the amount of you juggalos and Pennywise fukbois has risen exponentially, creating a brutal environment for the actual clown community. You all think you’re so funny when, in all actuality, you’ve made laughter a crime.
Tears washed away my eyeliner the other night as I read that you had made your way to Michigan State. I knew what was to come. The press. The hostility. Everyone in mass hysteria over being assaulted by any clown that comes his or her way. I hear Congress just passed a bill from the NRA that grants citizens full access to guns as long as they promise to shoot clowns on sight. And so here I am. Locked up in my room. Afraid of what’s to come.
I saw you out my window last week. I spoke to you. Did you hear me? I screamed at you. I told you that this was your fault! And what did you do? Blissfully cackled away, returning to terrorizing innocent human beings! You disappeared by the end of the night and the press played it off as a hoax, but you sure as Hell knew that you still freaked the fuck out of everyone in the area.
Roscoe died last night. He asked a child if he wanted a milkshake and, instead of a child’s natural reaction of accepting the offer, the child greeted him with three bullets to the chest from his Glock 26. My one true inspiration was a victim of child brutality. And I. Blame. You.
I just wanted to let you know that, no matter what you say or what you do, you don’t represent my community. We are a humorous society and we will are dying, but the few will remain resilient.
I have a gig on Friday. An eight year old’s birthday party. I plan to do the shake bit to pay homage to Roscoe. The last three gigs have cancelled on me, but I will not lose faith in humor. I want to be able to ask a child for a shake and inspire them the way Roscoe inspired me when I saw him “shake” for the first time. I just hope that, when I do it, the outcome is brighter.
So you enjoy your games, you inhuman monster. We’ll see who laughs last.
Harambo The Clown
Who really even cares about Homecoming?