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The Mad Archivist posted:I am now filled with a burning need to either know more of, or create, a clown rank hierarchy based on a military one Clowns already have a hierarchy. The whiteface ranks above the auguste. Its like a D/S thing except they're supposed to make people laugh and hide their boners. I don't know what happens if the auguste is a master clown and the whiteface is just starting out, maybe the auguste secretly whispers pointers.
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Mar 7, 2015 22:50
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Whats the matter kid,don't you like clowns? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tUVzt4MAev0
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Mar 7, 2015 22:50
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is 28 too late or too early to decide I'd like to become a clown?
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Mar 7, 2015 22:55
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According to Wikipedia, North America's great contribution to clowning is the hobo clown character and various variants. It is probably the lowest ranking of all clowns but some of them are probably spies working for Clown Intelligence.
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Mar 7, 2015 22:59
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if you make a business contract while dressed as a clown and honking a bicycle horn can you use this as a reason to nullify agreement or declare agreement non binding tia
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Mar 7, 2015 23:02
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The Last Circus was a good look into the dynamic of auguste and blanc clowns. Also, its batshit crazy.
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Mar 7, 2015 23:09
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a master of irish blackface. a noble pursuit.
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Mar 7, 2015 23:12
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I bet those master clowns really hate the whole "scary clown" preoccupation the world has now.
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Mar 7, 2015 23:15
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it only makes them work harder and strive for better clownsmanship
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Mar 7, 2015 23:29
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I wonder how master clowns and sane clown organizations such as clowns international feel about these fellows. Where does the Juggalo rank among the Whiteface and Auguste?
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Mar 7, 2015 23:52
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Karate Bastard posted:So few of us left. We are 46 days into this farce and dawn woke five less than went under the canvas at nightfall. Curd and cream from light caliber splashback stripe battle weary faces, slowly going rancid in the unrelenting summer sun that boils us alive with nothing but layers upon layers of festive woolen garb to shield us from its murderous glare. Noone expected the mimes to be so resilient. Horns, water barrels, small rebellious canines; all staples of proven comedy that do nothing for their bitter blackened hearts. We fought horror daily since we realized that our only hope would be schadenfreude. The nutshots have taken a heavy toll on our numbers but every chuckle agonizingly drawn from their sneering faces has put us ahead. My painted rictus mirrors my resolve as I again order out the main cannon. Today another platoon goes over their walls. Hardened veterans all; they know it is useless to sweat to death against them. No nets this time. Our nets are broken. We are out of custard. I go now to step into the cylinder, to lead the charge from which there can be no return. We knew this day would come when we donned the paint. We are clowns. Let's see who laughs last.
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Mar 7, 2015 23:55
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Linux Pirate posted:I wonder how master clowns and sane clown organizations such as clowns international feel about these fellows. most clowns can probably relate to this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXyxYBPJngk more clown music https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksCi8Ei7ykE Stick Figure Mafia fucked around with this message at 23:59 on Mar 7, 2015 |
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Mar 7, 2015 23:56
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I listened to the first song, I am not listening to the second 
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Mar 8, 2015 00:05
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du71B7kEHvY
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Mar 8, 2015 00:26
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Sgt. Binky's gone, it wasn't supposed to happen like this. The sneering Frenchman dissapeared through the tatters of tent flapping in the cotton candy-scented breeze, scampering over obstacles only he could see. Binky's pleading eyes look up at me as his life's blood pumps from an invisible wound. I take his nose, foamed and red, another auguste, lost. The greasepaint hides my tears as we order the tramps onwards.
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Mar 8, 2015 00:53
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Karate Bastard posted:So few of us left. We are 46 days into this farce and dawn woke five less than went under the canvas at nightfall. Curd and cream from light caliber splashback stripe battle weary faces, slowly going rancid in the unrelenting summer sun that boils us alive with nothing but layers upon layers of festive woolen garb to shield us from its murderous glare. Noone expected the mimes to be so resilient. Horns, water barrels, small rebellious canines; all staples of proven comedy that do nothing for their bitter blackened hearts. We fought horror daily since we realized that our only hope would be schadenfreude. The nutshots have taken a heavy toll on our numbers but every chuckle agonizingly drawn from their sneering faces has put us ahead. My painted rictus mirrors my resolve as I again order out the main cannon. Today another platoon goes over their walls. Hardened veterans all; they know it is useless to sweat to death against them. No nets this time. Our nets are broken. We are out of custard. I go now to step into the cylinder, to lead the charge from which there can be no return. We knew this day would come when we donned the paint. We are clowns. Let's see who laughs last. 
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Mar 8, 2015 02:41
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If badass clowns who take their comedy very seriously are yoir thing, pratchett has 
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Mar 8, 2015 02:45
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 Puberty is unkind to Bobby Hill. His face transforms into a pock-marked wasteland, and his aggression rages unchecked. "Old Yeller?" Hank asks, melodramatic as ever with Winchester rifle in his hands. "Now just hold on, Hank." Peggy digs around in her fanny pack and pulls out a rolled-up and thoroughly highlighted Reader's Digest. "This article suggests that we find an appropriate outlet for Bobby to express himself. And since he's our Buddha-bellied el retardo, it looks like it'll be Clown College for our little boy!" CLOWN COLLEGE Ever since he could remember, Bobby had always wanted to be a Troll Doll. Now that he was wearing a shock of neon blueberry hair, he felt like he was one step closer to that life goal. "My parents didn't know what to do with me," he explains to a woman sitting next to him; she is twice his age and inexplicably pedestrian looking. Is she even trying? "So they sold me to the Clown College." "Mmmhmm...that's...nice. I guess." But she seems more interested in a VHS cassette tape that she worries constantly. "I once found a tape like that at my house. It was a video of men naked-wrestling. It made me feel...funny. But not like 'ha ha clown' funny." "My husband recorded this tape for me. This is his suicide tape," the woman says abruptly. "This is my husband, now." She raises the tape to her nose and inhales deeply. Just then, the instructor enters the lecture hall. He is an aged man, affected by thick, circular pince-nez glasses, Van Dyke, and frock coat. "Greetings and salutations, ladies," he says with all the aplomb of a theater actor. "I don't greet gentlemen because men are the scum of the earth." Bobby's stomach twists and he sinks into his seat. "YOU MAY ASK: WHY are MEN SCUM OF THE EARTH? WELL. It is BECAUSE--" Just then the instructor sees Bobby. "You, there: Why do you have that damnable blue wig on your head?" "My parents sold me to this clown college," Bobby explains weakly. "CLOWN COLLEGE? Is that some sort of JEST?" The knot in Bobby's stomach swells and burns. That's when he realizes that it isn't any ordinary knot; it is the puberty. "THIS IS NO CLOWN COLLEGE, BOY." Bobby grinds his teeth as beads of sweat bubble up beneath his blue wig; a furious rage swells deep inside of him, eating at his insides like acid. He jumps up on the table and roars like a lion, but the roar is hidden behind a mere boy's voice. The entire lecture hall erupts in riotous laughter, accompanied by the boos and jeers of braver students who pelt Bobby with trash. He drops down into the middle of the hall and shields himself from the missiles, but the instructor seizes him by the arm. "WHERE ARE YOU GOING, YOU QUEER LITTLE BOY?" Bobby bites down on the old man's arm and instantly draws blood; the instructor gasps and lets go. The boy is lost in a blood-rage. He growls and gurgles and stoops low, dodging thrown objects. There is only the puberty. But some primitive instinct deep inside of him tells him he must escape, and he is beholden to the raw urge. He flees the room and disappears.
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Mar 8, 2015 06:12
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 who wanna fucc
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Mar 8, 2015 06:48
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christian clowns ≠ master clowns https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3s92iRbhMgY
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Mar 8, 2015 18:00
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gently caress da Mods posted:christian clowns ≠ master clowns if you're thinking about choosing a path to become a master clown or are serious about clowning in general, that video is a must.
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Mar 8, 2015 18:46
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Linux Pirate posted:if you're thinking about choosing a path to become a master clown or are serious about clowning in general, that video is a must. It's a great intro into quiet clowning for the elderly
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Mar 8, 2015 18:52
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| # ? Apr 27, 2024 03:19 |
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Glassware tortuously writhes across all available shelving and extends its haphazard mycelium via makeshift scaffolding into nothing. Retorts and chromatography columns spew forth their noxious vapors where connections are broken or never made or even intended, in billowing prismatic clouds along the charring rafters. Some of it genuine, some of it cunningly spun sugar, the difference indiscernible until it comes crashing down into your face after an inopportune banana peel skid or office jape. Sometimes screams and severed limbs is the price of progress, but our histrionics are losing and the tide must be turned. Some wear rebreathers, gloves and heavy stained aprons; some wear bottle bottom glasses and swimming trunks, but all wear the red pointed curls of the scientillator corps. The Rector Rictus hasn't come down here in months. I have no idea what these people are doing anymore. Did I ever? Did anyone? I ordered the addition of 4.5 liters of methanol and now they are adding something rancid by the barrel and the apparatus is regurgitating something vile and festive as a result. The chained primates are screaming, mayhap from prolonged neuronal degradation, but more likely from chemically coerced levity like staring into the face of Gelos. Such is the emergent genius of our chaotic blundering; we force the hand of serendipity. We recruited well. We will have the the panacea, the fragrance of the gods. The laughing gas will purge the silent unbelievers. We are clowns. Let's see whose laughs last. ~ Inquisitor Scientillatori Beppo Salieri, Carnies 5:33 Karate Bastard fucked around with this message at 23:11 on Mar 8, 2015 |
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Mar 8, 2015 23:07
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