EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY DIANE KEATON

BUY ME!!

Think of it: clowns paint their mouths with wide red bands, making them appear more open and inviting. Noses are extended, made larger and thicker, and painted in provocative colors. Hair on the head, which reminds the subconscious of genital hair, is puffed and combed, pulled sideways to great lengths, then dyed bold, eye-catching colors. Is there any doubt that the mating ritual of clowns is extravagantly beyond the practices of ordinary people?

Male clowns will often pick a drab female, then spend weeks or months convincing her of the appeal of slipping into a satin dress with bright orange polka dots. The clown will court her in full make-up, inuring her to the sight of him, slowly urging her to join him in the ceremony of the greasepaint. The relationship of male to female is the same as peacock to hen: the male, or Tom-clown, will dress in full regalia; the female, or She-foon, will reflect the Tom-clown’s appearance, but to an understated, symbolic extent.

At the beginning of mating, the She-foon will sit on the edge of the bed while the male clown does handsprings across the bedroom. He will then sit in a pie. The pie symbolizes the male fluid, and by sitting in it, the clown fuels his erotic juices. He then removes his meringue-soaked lower garment, known as the Boopy-Doopy, puts it in a pre-addressed mailer, and sends it to Saudi Arabia.

The female then lies back on the bed and exposes her genitalia, on which has been painted an orange and green target. The tip of the male organ has been coated with red greasepaint. The Tom-clown steps back from the bed and flies at her three times, always missing and hitting his head on the headboard. Then penetration is attempted. It is the Tom-clown’s responsibility to stay wide of the target, generating several false starts to which the female responds with “Wrong!” and “Nope!” Once penetration is achieved, the female shouts, “Do it, Bozo!” and the act is consummated. Afterwards, it is a custom, though not part of the ritual, for the clown to lie back on his bed and light an exploding cigar.

The sex life of clowns, like that of regular humans, is fraught with complications and complexities. Sometimes the female, in the last stages of courtship, will choose a published scientist instead. Sometimes ejaculation is premature because the clown suddenly imagines forty of his fellows crowded into a Volkswagen. It is often believed that ritualized sex makes courtship easier, that practiced rules don’t require much imagination or personality. But debilitating failure, within the context of these conventions, is common for clowns.

I know.

I am one.

STEVE MARTIN

Because I made a movie about alcoholic clowns, people think I hate clowns. I don’t hate clowns. I hate people who like clowns. Clowns to me are like John Tesh’s music; I’m sure it’s awful, but I just choose to ignore it, so it doesn’t affect my life in any way. My movie, Shakes the Clown, was not supposed to be an indictment of the clown world. I was trying to make fun of stand-up comedians. People think it would be fun to hang around comedians. Sometimes it is, but most of the time it’s brutal. We are a group of self-absorbed, self-hating, humorless pricks who are prone to deep, dark depressions (except for my friends and Ray Romano, who I hear is a very nice fellow).

Neither the clowns nor the comics got my movie. The clowns took it personally. (Was the movie too close to the bone? Maybe clowns are a bunch of murderous, backstabbing, cocaine-sniffing alcoholics?) Clown groups around the country condemned the film before it came out. Steve Smith, the president of the Barnum Clown College in Sarasota, was its harshest critic, issuing damning statements about the film before it was even released.

I was so excited. I knew the movie had zero money for publicity and the clowns would promote it for me. I had made the Last Temptation of Bozo. In fact, even Bozo came out against my movie on CNN. I retaliated against his comments by saying that “Bozo is a has-been who should be waving out front of a car wash.” The harder I hit them, the more they promoted the film. There was an audible gasp from the audience on Regis and Kathie Lee when I called Ronald McDonald “a corporate whore.” It worked. Soon Time, Entertainment Weekly, and USA Today all ran stories on the “clowntroversy.” My little, dirt-head film even made its way into Johnny Carson’s monologue, two nights in a row.

It all peaked when, upon arriving to appear on the Today Show after a sleepless flight, I was told that “a clown is going to debate you on the show.” I said, “I know, I’ve seen your program.” I was then informed that they meant a real clown, not Katie Couric. The clown and I shared a small dressing room; his name was Bamboozle. We were very cordial to each other, but he seemed a little confused when I informed him I was going to rip him a new asshole when we got out on the air. He asked, “Why?” I said, “’Cause it’s TV. It’s not real. It’s like wrestling.” True to my word, when we got out there, the shit hit the fan. (Katie has gone on to claim on both Rosie and Conan that it was her worst interview ever. I take this as quite a compliment, coming from a woman who has to interview ’NSync with a straight face.) Bamboozle said something like “Clowns do a lot of good work for kids and Bobcat’s film portrays them in a negative light.” I said, “Nobody thinks clowns are funny. The only reason you perform in hospitals is because that’s the one place a kid can’t get up and run away from you.” Katie started hitting me with her notes and asked,“Would you please be serious?” I said, “No, you’re interviewing me and a clown. What happened? Did you lose a bet with Bryant?” I have said and done much worse things on talk shows, but I have never been asked back on the Today Show.

Most people get nervous when they see a clown, because clowns give off this vibe that they are going to make you touch their penis. I get nervous when I see a clown, because I don’t know if he is going to slug me over something I said when I was trying to promote my low-low-budget movie. I have learned that clowns, like comedians, are very sensitive and lack a sense of humor about themselves. I guess it’s easy to step on someone’s toes when they’re wearing size eighteen shoes.

BOB GOLDTHWAIT

Dear Diane,

Sorry this took so long, but something very important happened to me while I was writing this. I started off okay, but then I digressed into something I can only describe as extraordinary. I leave it intact as it came out.

In school, the class clown was the disruptive kid who had poor impulse control. He was always, always annoying me. The kid who made quiet, witty comments pointing out ironies of the lesson was funny. The difference between them is wit. Clowns are witless performers. They bombard you with “Laugh at my big, red lips!!…Okay, maybe my big, mismatched clothes will floor you!!…Hey, look at the unnaturally huge expression painted on my face!!” Being around a clown is like being poked repeatedly by someone trying to get my attention. I just want to swat them away.

Wait a minute, I have pretty strong feelings of disdain for clowns. This is interesting because many argue that all performers are ultimately clowns in some form. And as a performer, I’m mostly associated with “witless” characters. Maybe the disdain is for myself. Maybe it’s a monotonous loop of self-loathing channeled into performing for love and attention. (That’s a pretty common psychological analysis of performers.) Oh God, I’m common on top of everything else. I have to fix this. I have to change. I need to break the cycle, just break the cycle. Get out of this go-nowhere loop so I can truly love myself–MY SELF. I’ll be the opposite of what I am now. I’ll become…an attorney, a TAX attorney!

Well Diane, that’s it. That’s what happened to me through your book–through taking a long, hard look at clowns!! God is truly everywhere. Thank you, Diane. I’ll always cherish the time I got to work with you. If you ever have any problems with the IRS, I’d love to help. I’ll be listed as Lisa Kudrow, ’cause that’s, you know, my professional name. Who knows, it might be good for business–make the acting pay off somehow–turn a “wrong” into a “right.”

Sincerely,

LISA KUDROW