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Tuesday night at 10:16 I got the following text from my business partner Chris:

“Are you coming to the clown party?”

Huh.  Clown party.  Hmm.

In ten years of owning bars I’ve seen or hosted honky tonk parties, moustache parties, co-birthday parties for Elvis and Bowie (both January 8), zombie prom parties, live painting parties, New Order and Smiths tribute parties, as well as sock hop and dead celeb parties, but I’ve never been to a Clown Party.

So of course I had to go.  I pictured something wholesome and nostalgic, like clowns juggling on unicycles.

I walked into Radio Bar and sure enough, I saw about a dozen clowns hanging out.  These weren’t, however, your standard issue family friendly Ringling Brothers clowns…

…nor were they super creepy John Wayne Gacy type clowns either…

…but they were definitely a bit….off.

Leather cross braces.  I remember the leather cross braces.

okay, so maybe they were a little creepy

It was a busy night, and once in a while, when it is busy, I get inspired to earn my paycheck by actually working.  So I started bar backing – washing dirty glasses, cutting fruit, refilling the ice wells.

We have a little upstairs mezzanine lounge at Radio and I went up to clean off the tables.  I saw a couple of clowns canoodling in a corner booth, but it was nothing more than the usual three drink snog, so I thought nothing of it.

I stacked as many pint glasses as I could (my limit’s about seven)….

Hired!

…went back downstairs, washed them, then headed back up to collect more.

That’s when I froze.

Halfway up the stairs I locked eyes with one of the canoodling clowns.  What I remember most is his big white 70’s afro style wig and the surprised look in his eyes.  Three stairs below him, bracing herself with the stair handrails, another clown, wearing a Raggedy Ann red wig, was bobbing her head back in forth in front of him.

So naturally the question occurred: what does one do when one stumbles upon clown-on-clown oral sex?

Not to toot my own horn (insert rim shot here), but I thought I handled the situation with real tact: albino-fro clown looked embarrassed and made a motion like he was going to zip up his pants (do clown pants even have zippers?), but I flipped up my palm and shook my head as if to say, “it’s okay, I can come back later.”  So I just turned around and went back down, wiped a few more glasses dry, and, a minute later, the canoodling clowns both took a seat at the bar and ordered a couple of vodka tonics.

I let someone else serve them.

A few minutes later my bartender introduced me to another clown, the head clown (insert second rim shot here), who was having a drink at the bar.

He handed me his card.

Of course!  The Porn Clown Posse!  Duh.

It all made sense now, as much sense as people dressing up in clown costumes and having sex in public places just for the frisson of it can make.

Hey, Al Qaeda, just in case you’re running out of things to hate the decadent West for, here’s a picture to get the ole jihad fired up:

4 Comments

  1. Definitely need to come up and hang at your bar.

  2. Gives a whole new meaning to the parents saying, “Quit clowning around!”

  3. tee hee. excellent blog title, and I enjoyed reading about this slice of your life.

  4. Okayyy….

    Hey, it could of been worse – ever read ‘It’?