So I Quit Clown Class
I always wanted to do physical comedy. I took a clown class to push my body to explore its capacity and capability for comedy.
Instead, it pushed me into a space where I don’t fit. A box so uncomfortable that its fiendish design opened my psyche up like it was a can, upended it and covered me in my own awkward sauce.
Clown class this week started with a group discussion led by the teacher: “Is this fun? Are you enjoying it?”
A teacher asking if a clown class is fun? OK.
They read a script from their phone because they “wanted to get it right”. Then they asked for feedback on the class.
A couple of people said they liked class. I listened to this carefully then said “nope, I have found this largely non-enjoyable”.
The vulnerability clown class demands pushes a button for me that is clearly marked “Do Not Push”. And that button is in a sealed vault buried 10000 miles underground protected by lasers and gun turrets and sharks. No human can reach this vault alive.
Clown class bypassed all that security like it was nothing and hit the button loud and long.
Once the button got pushed, I felt like shit for days. For 72 hours after class everything I touched turned to dust.
So I quit.
