You Clown You
By Jonas Drew Flanary


On the crown of his octagon head rests a five size too small hat pulled over a giant cotton candy puffball, curl infested afro of a multicolored spectrum. Sometimes he shaves the top of his head to reveal a pearl white scalp, leaving the awkward perpendicular sprigs shooting out at colorful angles from the sides of his head. Whichever hair style he decides to sport, you can bet on a giant projectile flower sprouting out of the top of his noggin like spring fever. His nose, as bright and round as a plump ripe tomato, gleams with the redness of a shiny and sleek fire engine blasting towards a fire. Just as often as his demeanor and mood change, so does his physical appearance change, just as quickly and forcefully.
His kabuki face paint, ivory white and deceiving, fluctuates from extreme to extreme. Sometimes presented with a giant orange smile to go along with that giant red nose, lips pursed and then exploding into fits of hysterical and uncontrollable laughter, as he spews forth witty jokes and twists balloon animals, showing a robust funny face, a kind of goofy bewilderment a child could enjoy. But other times, when it's a bad day, he paints his face on with a scowl, the make-up around his eyes slapped on with a vigorous display of suspicion and malicious intent. Fat ears hearing everything, and his mouth, that horrible foul mouth, painted on with such a despicable flavor, a horrible grimace with unkempt hair. When having a bad day, the ivory whiteness of his kabuki mask decays to a pale off-gray. His make-up looks smeared and sloppy. His tomato nose drips forth snot. When feeling this way he often vomits on the children.
As for his attire, he wears a variety of conflicting spots and stripes, horizontal and vertical, and displaying bad taste in coloring. An over-sized bow tie of tie-dyed lavender with yellow polka dots, or the giant necktie of maroon with the dancing baboons adorn his neck below his fat double chins. There is always dirt, grime, food stains, and crusted bile all over his plaid and striped bizarreness, and the filth particularly lines the silky garment about his neck. Upon his shirt sits a ruffled broach, a wilted corsage, that shoots forth icy cold water as this circus madcap jumps about farting and smoking big smelly cigars.
His shoes, nine sizes too big for his already exceedingly large feet, and crammed full of stink and toe jam, shoot forth into the world at the conclusion of his legs. His mouth, tinged at the bottom with food crumbs and disapproval, is always ready to win any debate, with its superior, but incredibly profane vocabulary. You had better watch out when he gets on his set of wooden stilts. They shoot him straight up into the sky, where he can bombard the general public with greasy speech, or balls of spit.

Hey...You Clown You...does your face feel hot? Do you feel that mask slowly creeping down over your head again? Quit rubbing it and tearing at it. It's you in disguise.


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Jonas is a Funky Tunk, a lover of all things good to the senses. He lives to spontaneously combust, and then pick up the pieces and start over again.