The Ten Declarations of Bozo, Supreme Jongleur of Planet Clown

It begins with laughter, followed by a sputtering of sobs.

A Pierrot looks on, aghast. Cameras flash in the darkness of the big top.

Ones and zeros hurtle across the interplanetary void, zoom along the cosmic information highway. The video titled “Clown makes little girl cry” zaps across the networks to tech-specs, smartpalms, flexies, neuroplants; every device on every planet in the Commonwealth rings out with her sobs.

“I *sob*

hate *sob*

CLOWNS *sob*

Mummy!”

It happens quickly then. As if in solidarity, brainwashed by those four potent words, humanity, spread across the stars, turns on the clowning classes. Red noses become bloody noses, hurled acid melts makeup, dyed hair is scalped from pate; pundits on all channels of the astronews networks cry, “It’s just not funny anymore!” while banging their fists. Circus tents burn brightly in the night. Chants of “Round ’em up! Get ’em out!” resound through every system from Sol to Tau Ceti.

In cities across the Commonwealth, scores of adults and children wearing painted-on smiles and oversized shoes are marched toward the spaceports, a headless squirt flower pinned to each one’s chest in mourning. They are thrust with nothing but meager supplies and a bare minimum of fuel onto ships.

Blast off!

* * *

Some time later . . .

Everyone’s counting on you, Bozo. Keep it together. Keep your nose red and your smile wide. Remember what Nonna Calamità said: “When you’re scared, just know that The Big Jester in the Sky is laughing at you. And as long as someone’s laughing, there’s always hope.” Jitters. Goddamn stage fright. Pull yourself together, Bozo.

Get out there—

Clowndom needs you!

Declaration the First: I, Comrade-in-Mirth Bozo, declare this new world, Planet Clown, from this day forth to be a haven for joculators, jesters, jugglers, mimes, and any other practitioner of the humorous arts. And so say we all! *honk-honk*

That was good. That was good. They all laughed hard, didn’t they? They like you. You don’t have to win this crowd. We’re all clowns, dammit—all proud clowns. No need to feel shame anymore. No need to hide. “Don’t ever be ashamed of who and what you are, little chuckler.” I won’t, Nonno Zippo. “Don’t let anyone take away your horn, capito? You goddit?” I goddit, Nonno Z. I goddit.

Declaration the Second: I, Comrade-in-Mirth Bozo, hereby declare that no one shall be punished for wearing a colorful wig, for painting their nose or face, for the bigness of their shoes, or the littleness of their car. All who call Planet Clown their home may celebrate their clownhood in freedom! And so say we all! *honk-honk*

* * *

All’s well, for a while. Until . . . reports that some are not painting their faces gets back to Big Top HQ.

What are they doing? Are they forgetting who they are? What they are?

Traitors to the paint . . .

Traitors to the paint, and all of us who wear it!

Declaration the Third: I, Comrade-in-Mirth Bozo, hereby declare that the wearing of appropriate makeup and clowning attire by all is Strongly Encouraged. Face paint should be applied promptly after rising, regularly touched up throughout the day, and remain intact until one's evening toilet. Acceptable clownwear includes either a giant bowtie, a ruffled collar, or pom-pom buttons, in sufficiently garish colors. Variegated pantaloons are to be considered mandatory from this day forth. Your district-level Pierrot will provide you with a full list of recommendations. And so say we all! *honk-honk*

Until . . . a slightly larger-than-average car is reportedly spotted in an Auguste neighborhood.

Traitors to the sciatica, and all of us who suffer it!

Declaration the Fourth: Furthermore, the size of one’s car should not lend itself to comfort, but rather to levity. No clown should be able to fit in their car without experiencing a moderate-to-severe level of discomfort. Neither should a car be occupied by fewer than six clowns at any time. To ensure this, cars that are not considered sufficiently stuffed will be confiscated and destroyed. Full details from your district-level Pierrot. And so say we all! *honk-honk*

Until . . . a mime, suffering from malnutrition, is overheard complaining that he’s tired of eating only custard pies and wishes they’d be allowed to grow maybe just a few measly vegetables . . .

Traitors to the crust, and all of us who lick it from our faces!

Declaration the Fifth: Nor shall anyone eat the food of our oppressors, which forevermore shall be declared profane. The only victuals a good clown needs are a custard pie and a bucket of confetti thrown in the face. And so say we all!

Mirthfulness reigns.

Declaration the Sixth: *honk-honk*

* * *

A memory:

“Why are some people scared of us, Nonno Z?”

“I believe it is a fear of the unknown, little chuckler. They see our painted faces, our painted smiles, and they don’t know how we really feel behind it all. They don’t like that . . . and, perhaps, I think they dislike that we throw custard pies in their faces and squirt them with water when they are not expecting it. Cleanfaces don’t like to be out of control, you see.”

“Maybe we should stop it, then. If they hate it so much . . .”

“Stop it? Never! No! Little chuckler, this is what makes us special. When the lights go down, all eyes are on who? Not the Cleanface next to them. Not their Cleanface wife or little Cleanface child. All eyes are on you, the clown! Will you drop your pantaloons? Will you fall over? Will you be hit in the face with the pie? Yes, some hate us, but we are what makes life exciting! Be the clowniest person of all, and you’ll be the most special of all.”

I’ll be an example—an example to them all. They’ll look to me and see what it means to be a true clown.

Declaration the Seventh: I, Comrade-in-Mirth Bozo, shall henceforth and forever be granted the title Supreme Jongleur, Chosen of the Holy Jester, Keeper of the Sacred Traditions of the Commedia, Maestro of the Clowning Way, For Now and All Eternity. So says the Supreme Jongleur.

* * *

The Harlequin Guard is formed to protect the sanctity of the Supreme Jongleur. Any who expresses disquiet at his behavior is branded a Cleanface and unceremoniously shot out of a space cannon.

Declaration the Eighth: A portrait of the Supreme Jongleur is to be placed in every dwelling and clown college for the purpose of raising national spirit—the viewing and laughing at of said portrait, in all its mirthful glory, to be taken thrice daily on weekdays and five times on Calamitàdays and Zippodays.

I must teach them, my children, the true ways of the clown. The future of our great planet cannot be left to mimes and jugglers. They must learn from me and me alone. Nonna Calamità, Nonno Zippo, your sacred teachings will live on through me . . .

Young clowns are taken from their parents to continue their comedic education under the loving wing of the Supreme Jongleur in his Houses of Cheer; those whose children have been taken place headless squirt flowers in pots by their windows.

* * *

Declaration the Ninth: Performances of the Supreme Jongleur’s greatest japes are henceforth to be played continuously on every telescreen in the land. Attend his magnificent pratfalls, his sublime debagging, his impeccable rake-stepping routine, and be yourselves inspired to comedic greatness!

* * *

A memory:

“Now listen to your Nonna, little chuckler. Beneath your face paint there is always a man. Therein lies the true beauty of the clown. It gives us our pathos, our very soul. You cannot be a clown without also being a man.”

In the mirror of his chambers in Big Top Palace, Supreme Jongleur Bozo removes his makeup for the night.

Off comes the white, off comes the smile, off comes the red of the nose. He places his rainbow wig atop the mannequin on his dresser.

The Supreme Jongleur looks in the mirror.

He laughs and laughs. For all that stares back at him is a mad, grinning, clown.

* * *

Declaration the Tenth: A statue of the Supreme Jongleur is to be erected in the Grand Piazza of Big Top Palace, a statue of such magnitude and foolery that it will be laughed at for a thousand years!

Clowns work day and night to build the statue. Blood mixed with face paint stains the marble. When the statue is unveiled, a crowd has been gathered.

They stand before the effigy in silence.

On the balcony of his great tent, the Supreme Jongleur looks out at the sea of red, green, and blue wigs. He does not see from his distance that on each one’s smock there is pinned a headless squirt flower.

* * *

Why aren’t they laughing? Why? Why?

Does their Supreme Jongleur not amuse them?

They don’t want to laugh. Hehehehehe. They don’t want to laugh?

Well, I’ll make them laugh.

*honk-honk*