Sugar

Blame sugar for all of our woes,

From cancer to bunions on toes.

Without something sweet

I can’t be upbeat;

I’d rather my tastebuds all froze!

Trump Backs 20% Tax on Imports to Pay for Wall

From the New York Times:  PHILADELPHIA — The White House on Thursday endorsed a 20 percent tax on all imports to the United States, an idea congressional Republicans have proposed as part of a broader overhaul of corporate taxation. Sean Spicer, the White House press secretary, told reporters that revenue from the tax would cover the cost of a wall on the United States-Mexico border.

Americans won’t have to pay

To keep Mexicanos at bay.

How pleasant to know

That all of the dough

Will come from a tariff -- ole!

Clowns in the White House

There have been circus clowns in and around the White House for over a hundred years.

(Insert your own joke about White House clowns here -- go on, get it out of your system, so I can continue this piece without any further cackles from the peanut gallery.)

In 1868 the famous clown Dan Rice, upon whom our national icon Uncle Sam was modeled, ran for President. Rice lost, but his fame and fleeting wealth allowed him to hobnob with several presidents before and after the Civil War. Starting with President Harry Truman, Ringling clown Felix Adler entertained children on the White House lawn during the annual Easter Egg Roll. And in 1977 yours truly, along with a dozen other denizens of clown alley, were invited to tour the Jimmy Carter White House when Ringling played Washington DC. To my knowledge Jimmy Carter is the only President ever to invite circus clowns on this kind of a tour. Say what you want about the guy, but I think this showed real heart.

Head promoter Art Ricker told us the news in clown alley. No strings attached; we didn’t have to show up in makeup and costume to cavort for the crowd. The Carter administration, in recognition of our invaluable services over the years at keeping America laughing, invited us to tour the White House.

“Will Jimmy and Rosalynn be there?” I asked.

“Sorry, pal” replied Ricker, blowing a fetid cloud of cigar smoke over our heads. “They got better things to do than show you the crockery and donnicker. You’ll have a private tour guide. Be at the West Gate at 9:30 tomorrow morning.”

“Aw, I don’t want to see ‘em anyway -- when you’ve seen one peanut farmer you’ve seen ‘em all!” said Dougie Ashton, who was Australian and never let anyone forget it.

“Maybe we’ll get some Billy Beer” speculated Swede Johnson. That sealed the deal, and the next morning a goodly segment of clown alley rolled up to the West Gate for a looksee.

I should mention that we had picked up a camp follower a few days before. He showed up in clown alley, a nondescript hominid dressed in frayed brown polyester slacks, a blue polo shirt that was too tight for him, and sneakers on their way to becoming huaraches. His strabismus left you wondering who he was looking at when he talked, and he loved to talk. He claimed to be JoJo the Dog Eared Boy, whose grandfather had been JoJo the Dog Faced Boy -- one of P.T. Barnum’s freak show discoveries. The grandson’s only canine characteristics, as far as I could tell, were his wet dog B.O. and a tangled growth of hair inside his ears. He initially asked if he could sign on as a clown, at which point several of the older clowns picked him up and threw him out while he was still talking. Nothing daunted, he immediately came back in, to universal jeers and requests that this time he be tossed to the killer kangaroo.

“Don’t do that guys, don’t do that” he pleaded. “I can do errands for ya, fetch stuff for ya -- fetch stuff!”

We usually had one of the roustabouts, known as Smiley for his permanently sour scowl, run our errands, but he had evaporated in DC due to an outstanding warrant some insistent deputies wanted to serve him. So we loaded JoJo the Dog Eared Boy with requests for  newspapers, baby oil, bagels with cream cheese, and cigarettes. He collected a few bucks and took off. If he never showed up again, it was no big deal; and if he proved faithful it would take care of Smiley’s absence.

He did return with the desired items, and immediately attached himself to clown alley like a lamprey. Forty five years ago thoughts of security and paranoia had not yet merged into the toxic neurosis we experience today. JoJo was no stranger than most of the inhabitants of clown alley anyways, so why not let him tag along for some laughs and whatever help he could be? An old circus tradition called ‘mousing’ allowed clown alley to designate an official gofer, who then was given a bunk with the roustabouts and two dukey boxes a day. A dukey box contained an apple or banana, two hard boiled eggs, a ham salad or chicken salad sandwich, and a large messy hunk of apple pie. No salary; the mouser had to depend on tips from clown alley for any folding money.   

So JoJo came along with us to the White House, gabbling continuously about how his grandfather, the original JoJo, had once licked William McKinley’s hand. Our tour guide was a perky young thing named Cindy. Chico, Anchor Face, and several other clown alley lotharios immediately began hitting on her. I don’t think she had been forewarned about our unconventional group; she seemed taken aback when Anchor Face offered to wrap her in cotton candy and then lick it off to the tune of Diana Ross’ ‘Love Hangover.’

JoJo had to be restrained from nuzzling her; she appeared ready to scream and dash away when Prince Paul stepped importantly up to her and said: “Ignore these schlemiels, madam. Continue with your ministrations to our historical ignorance. They won’t bother you again.” This last sentence was said with such a ferocious stare at us that we all took an involuntary step backwards. Nobody ever dared to cross Prince; he was a dwarf with a ferocious sense of pride and a deadly shot with anything sharp and heavy within reach.

I must admit I don’t remember very much of that tour. We were shown some rickety chairs and a musty set of curtains or two, along with a bunch of knick knacks that Dolly Madison had imported from Britain. There were dozens of portraits of presidents past. I asked if we could see the haunted Lincoln bedroom I had read about in Reader’s Digest, but Cindy said that wing was closed for renovations.

“Where do they keep Marilyn Monroe’s body frozen?” asked Dougie, just to test Prince out. “I hear it’s under the bowling alley, am I right?” Prince began fingering a small potted fern in a sinister manner, so Ashton hastily backed down. “No worries, mate. I was just foolin’” he said nervously.

 Chico sidled up to me just as we were finishing up, to show me a large glass ashtray he had nicked. It had the Presidential Seal engraved on it.

“This’ll make a great birthday present for Sandy, dontcha think?” he quizzed me conspiratorially.

I blanched in terror at his kleptomaniac effrontery.

“Put that back you idiot!” I hissed at him. “They’ll lock us all up is some dungeon over at the Smithsonian!”

“Don’t be such a maroon” he said, sounding like Bugs Bunny. “It’s just like taking towels from a big hotel; they expect it.”

Sneering at my cowardice, he strolled away with the loot hooked securely under his arm and plainly visible. Again, I can only marvel at the laissez-faire of those long ago days -- the Secret Service didn’t hustle Chico away for a session of waterboarding and he walked out of there with an extremely unique souvenir. The rest of us got cheap plastic pens from Cindy that had stenciled on the barrel “White House Tour 1977.” I bet they don’t even have ashtrays in the White House anymore. Not where you could just pinch one, anyways.

Selling a lie

In Race Against Fake News, Google and Facebook Stroll to the Starting Line  

Headline from the New York Times

Remember that selling a lie

Is easier than apple pie.

You can’t market truth

Like bonded vermouth;

It won’t let you get very high.

Felony Charges for Journalists Arrested at Inauguration Protests Raise Fears for Press Freedom

From the New York Times:  At least six journalists were charged with felony rioting after they were arrested while covering the violent protests that took place just blocks from President Trump’s inauguration parade in Washington on Friday, according to police reports and court documents.

Reporters who work in DC

In jail find themselves frequently.

Without breaking laws

They’re jugged without cause

As suspects against liberty.

Trump to Order Mexican Border Wall and Curtail Immigration

From the New York Times:  President Trump on Wednesday will order the construction of a Mexican border wall . . .

President Trumpy has spoken;
but blockades are made to be broken.
He may be the warder
of Mexico's border,
but he isn't worth a bus token. 

On second thought, here's an even better one:

I think it would be a good trick

If we could just manage to stick

A wall around Trump,

That mouthy old grump;

On Mexico why waste a brick?

The poor who are patient shall see

But blessed are the poor who are pure in heart, whose hearts are broken, and whose spirits are contrite, for they shall see the kingdom of God coming in power and great glory unto their deliverance; for the fatness of the earth shall be theirs.

Doctrine & Covenants. Section 56:18 

The poor who are patient shall see
God and His angel army
come down from the clouds,
dispersing the crowds
of Mammon with no charity. 

Clowns and Candy Butchers

In the Ringling hierarchy concessionaires were about a half-step down from the clowns, even though a real hustler could make tons more money than any clown.

Clown alley called them ‘candy butchers’, and we would have nothing to do with them. They bunked altogether in one train car; a hotbed of vice and debauchery that made Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Sunday School picnic. (Considering clown alley’s own shaky moral standards, this was a clear case of the pot calling the kettle black.)

Prior to my advent, clown alley had dallied with some sales schemes itself. In the 1960's some genius in Detroit thought it would be a good idea to use a Ford Fairmont for the Ringling clown car and base all their advertising for that brand on the fact that sixteen clowns could be squeezed into one. Clown alley got a new Fairmont each year, and the clowns got some big spreads in glossy magazines like LIFE and Saturday Evening Post. At the same time the Coca Cola company became the sole supplier of soft drinks to Ringling Brothers, and several cartons of the ubiquitous brew were routinely dropped off in clown alley for everyone to enjoy and promote. Unfortunately, the clowns couldn't resist shaking the bottles and then uncapping them at each other. And the Fairmont was used to house several geese for a sight gag that involved them apparently pulling a chariot of clowns dressed as Roman centurions. Eventually the Mad Men caught on to the fact that clowns and commercial sales were not a good mix, and clown alley was left to its own daffy devices.

And, like all hierarchies, the pecking order became fluid where money was concerned. The candy butchers were banned from hawking their wares out in the arena during the show, as being too distracting -- except when the clowns were on. They had full reign to peddle their programmes and sno-kones while we cavorted in the rings and on the track, and they took full advantage of these brief opportunities to cry up their merchandise in tones that rang the welkin.

Granted most of our clown gags were already deafening; but when clowns like Otto Griebling wanted to inject a quiet moment of whimsical pantomime into a slap boxing match or the camera gag, it was spoiled by the raucous vendor cries of “Get ‘em while they’re hot!” and “Two for a dollar!”

During the pre show warmup, called come in, I was experimenting with a gag that relied on subtly and concentration. I stacked empty aluminum pop cans into a large pyramid that towered over my head; the blow off was that when I reached up to put the very last can at the summit, the whole thing came crashing noisily down around me. For some reason, which I am still not able to explain fully, the audience thought this was hilarious. But the cursed candy butchers kept yelling facetious comments at me during this delicate operation (you try stacking 300 empty aluminum cans without having them collapse until you want them to -- it’s not as easy as it looks). They would holler “Hey, gimme a beer out of that stack will ya?”, or, even worse, they would give it away by yelling “It all falls down at the end, hah!”

I finally put that particular gag on hiatus in so I could extract my revenge from those loudmouth hucksters.

Going into the audience to do meet and greet (shaking hands, signing autographs, etc.) I brought along clothespins, metal paper clips, and balloons. When I spotted a likely concessionaire victim I would wrap the paper clip around the spring of the clothespin, blow up the balloon, and hook the knotted end to the clothespin via the bent paper clip. Then I would sneak up on the candy butcher and deftly clip the balloon onto the bottom of his or her red and white striped blouse. Now they had a bright yellow balloon bobbing up and down on their keister. As they tried to sell their wares the crowd around them became too hysterical to buy anything, until they discovered the latex bladder that was making love to their own heinie. My strategy started to cut into their come in sales, which accounted for nearly half of their profit each show.

After a few weeks of this artful persecution on my part, the candy butchers surrendered en masse, promising to leave my come in stacking gag in peace if I would leave their behinds balloon-free.

A few years into my clown career I got a closer look at the candy butchers -- one of them, anyways. This happened because he became engaged to one of Tim Holst’s sister-in-laws. By now Holst was a big wheel on the show -- assistant performance director, no less. He knew as well as I the decayed standards of candy butchers, and he was worried that his sister-in-law’s nuptials would soon come a cropper -- and his wife, who had no circus background whatsoever, would blame him for it. So he asked me, as a friend and not as an underling, to keep an eye on the guy, Steve. If I could catch him fooling around with some other woman Holst could put the kibosh on the wedding.

Putting on a pair of gum shoes and swaddling myself in a trench coat, I began tailing Steve. During the show, of course, I was busy with other things, but after the evening performance I would slip up to his concession stand and keep a beady eye on him as he counted his money (an obscene amount, and candy butchers routinely reported but a fraction of it to Uncle Sam.)

Within a few days I discovered that Steve was a dedicated swinger; he had a harem of nubile young women who were far too affectionate to be cousins or mere assistants (which is what he told his fiancee whenever she popped up unexpectedly.) He must have been telepathic, since he kept coming over to me in my dark corner and asking if I thought I could cramp his style by spying on him for Holst. If I wanted, he said, I was welcome to any one of his paramours for an evening that would, in the patois of the times, ‘blow my mind.’ I stiffly declined his offer. He just smiled and continued on with his wanton ways. As soon as I had the goods on this lecher I reported back to Holst, who thanked me effusively and then tried to have the wedding called off.

But the affairs of Venus are beyond the control of mere men. Holst’s sister-in-law pooh-poohed his revelations about Steve’s depravity. She knew he was not perfect, but she would take him in hand and reform him. I was invited to the wedding, which took place at a rented Elk’s banquet hall in North Platte, Nebraska. The place was too big for our party, and the neon beer signs glowing in the cavernous distance leant a distinct touch of melancholy to the proceedings.

It was no surprise to anyone, except the new bride, when Steve borrowed Holst’s brand new Volvo to pick up some concession supplies down in Florida and never came back. The Volvo was eventually found in a ditch in Sarasota, completely trashed and filled with empty Cold Duck bottles.

And yes, Holst was blamed for the disaster by his wife, and his bereft sister-in-law. They ganged up on him until he began seeking the relative peace and quiet of clown alley. There, at least, the constant brouhaha was never directed at him.

Show Trump the Proper Respect . . .

Trump Repeats Lie About Popular Vote in Meeting With Lawmakers  Headline in the New York Times

We MUST show a proper respect

for presidents, though they are flecked

with vices galore,

or what's PR for

and how could we dingbats elect? 

The Scammers of Vail

From the Denver Post:  Police in Vail are warning skiers and snowboarders of a trend of fraudulent lift ticket sales that has cost visitors thousands of dollars.

 A scammer can never go stale
when working the lifts up in Vail.
Most skiers are not
with brains really fraught;
snowboarders are clipped without fail.