It's the small pleasures that keep me going. The way that nasty little dog, in his old age, now scoots on his butt because his hips give out on him, and it looks so hilarious I laugh out loud every single time. Clowns make people laugh. Well, either that or scare the snot out of them. Some might say that's because of some kind of uncanny valley bullshit, but the truth is, the clowns are a more true representation of human nature than the dressed-up, painted, and manicured costumes most every day people trot around in all day. Goofy, stupid, ugly, gawking, leering, and cackling monkeys, that's what most of us are, and what's more, we like it that way. And it's just great if you ask me, 'cause who wants to live up to fuckin' sainthood anyway? But as much as I have an affection for clowns, that isn't why I picked up the trade. Like most careers I sort of entered into it without all that much long-term intention, and now it's just what I do to pay the bills. I don't need to come home every night all puffed up with the feeling that I'm doing something noble for the world. It's quite enough for me to pick up a pack of smokes, some cheap beer, a cheeseburger and fries, and curl up on the couch for a night of watching sad sacks on reality TV. With the help of the booze I'll pass out long before the infomercials come on with that stinky-ass mutt in my arms. Yeah, hangovers can be a bitch, but it doesn't matter because tomorrow is my day off.