Le Clown, When You Call My Name, It’s Like A Little Prayer

There is a ripple in the blog force, and as with anything borne of vibration, I plan to explore, touch, taste and insert it to discover if I have finally found that which brings me nothing but cheap pleasure.

But this isn’t just about me.  In fact it’s not about me at all.  Because if it were about me the job ad would not have necessitated ingesting copious amounts of alcohol just to figure out what the fuck the magnificent™ one was talking about.  I mean it started with hymen and ended with a question.  Somewhere in there were pieces of his body to use at one’s discretion.  When I mention pieces of body being available to the masses, you of course now realize this opportunity comes by way of one named Le Clown, and his inability to keep his own house in order.

He has become overwhelmed with the handful of people in his fan club and looks to others to manage these lost souls and sell them and others not yet indoctrinated, the illusion of a brush with magnificence™ while in reality delivering mediocrity from the fan club whip in return.  Circle of Life.

My first duty as ACOF Fan Club Wrangler would of course be to attend the Calgary Stampede (on Le Clown’s dime, as he in his benevolence would insist upon) and learn the ways of the true wrangler.  For this is one serious job that requires a level of professionalism currently unavailable in the eastern provinces of Canada.  I will become proficient in lassoing, torturing, downing and of course branding.  All cattle I successfully force into submission wrangle will display ACOF on their shanks, and these shall be the next proud members of the illustrious fan club.

The alluring idea of a job-share is something I have not been able to shake since becoming aware of this most generous off-loading of responsibility.  I suspect that Le Clown, Subcomandante and I will work side-by-each, glory-to-glory, fuck-fucker-fuckest to deliver to the people that which has never been delivered before – encouragement of their servitude through dependable replies to comments.  The mind-boggling infrastructure that has been put together, the computer code that has been written, even the brilliant idea to exploit the desperation of others longing to feel a sense of belonging are but few of the reasons that I hold Le Clown in such high esteem.  His forward thinking, his brilliant mind, that face.  He is going to take us to places the blogging world has never been and the likes of which we may never see again in our humble lifetimes.


I was born on a blog four months ago.  I don’t know Le Clown well, Subcomandante less so, and they don’t know me at all.  Yet, seriously, I consider them my parents.  I will serve and protect them in any way necessary like Higgins served Magnum P.I, like Gopher served The Captain, like Tattoo served Mr. Roarke, like Charlton Heston served the apes; wearing a uniform, appearing near naked, accepting bondage, donning a mustache, speaking with an accent, appearing sweaty, with gritted teeth.


I will keep fans in line by providing generous doses of sarcasm and fucks lightly interspersed with elusive promises of direct access to the magnificent™.  When necessary I’ll employ Tony Danza, a friend and former lover to spank me repetitively while yelling “Who’s the boss?”, should I ever slack on my wrangling responsibilities.  And, full disclosure, I may intentionally slack once in a while, but that’s my own shit and Tony’s always been good to me.


I rally for this job because I can’t swear in front of my children.  I can’t not swear in front of Le Clown and Subcomandante.  They unleash the leash of Catholic guilt.  They empower! They are power! They’re pow! They poo!  Shit.  See?

If I am not the chosen one, I plan to don a mask, call myself La Boeuf and stalk vegan bloggers.  And, start my own fucking club where my followers will not be carnies but carni-vores.  We’ll find clown fans and eat them for breakfast.  We’ll take the i’s out of magnificence™ so it will read magnfcence© and make no sense.  An empire will slowly crumble.

Dad; mom; I love you guys.  I don’t want things to end this way.  We’re all in it together.  Let the clown empire reign supreme.  I’m down on my knees.  I will take you there.


27 thoughts on “Le Clown, When You Call My Name, It’s Like A Little Prayer

  1. If the voting is based on a point system, and if I have any say in it (which I don’t) but I would give you massive style points for the Tony Danza reference. That was fucking funny!

    • Adam,
      When I take the title of Fan Club Wrangler I will put you as Fan #1 and ensure you receive all the perks such a title affords. I do not know the perks as I am not a club member.

      Shit. Should I have said that?

  2. Pingback: The Imaginarium of Le Clown Munchausen and the Flying Circus | A Clown On Fire

  3. Den Mother,
    Unbeknownst to you, you got me at There is a ripple in the blog force, being a ginormous geek/nerd when it comes to Star Wars. I even showed your sentence to my son, who said: Papa, it’s Star Wars! Major brownie points… And as much as I dislike Charlton Heston, I couldn’t be happier that he got to have the apes’ communist stinking paws all over him.

    …And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a 3-yr old all over me, who had two scoops of ice cream and is acting like Ol Dirty Bastard during an MTV Video Music Awards show.
    Le Clown

    • And unbeknownst to you, I live on brownie points. No, really I do. I’m a crowd pleasing, do gooder, troupe leader, camper and lightsaber master. I will cut down those who do not come as fans willingly.

      Please, never let your son scroll down to you as Tony Danza. There’d be too much explaining for the both of us.

  4. Pingback: ACOF Club Member Wrangler–SocietyRed | SocietyRed

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