I peeked out of the window. The situation

I peeked out of the window. The situation was worse today. It got worse with every day. I quickly shut the window as some onlookers began to onlook at my sparkly pyjamas. I

I'll be wearing oversized shoes and squirting people with fake flowers. No, the world must never see me as a Disco Clown. I tried to google search how to break this strange curse.

My search turned up thousand of hits.Thousands of bottled up disco clowns out there just waiting for a disco home! A disco ball swirls above my newly opened club: The Fat Left Foot

. I'd be damned if I was going to let those clowns into my club without a fight. I'd stationed several heavily-armed guards in anti-clown riot gear around the entrances to deter

the greasepaint-wearing intruders and had set buckets of Chuckle Acid™ (the only thing that can completely dissolve a clown - thus destroying its soul) atop all the doors. I then

sat with arms folded & lips clamped into a frown. The clowns used up their entire repertoire trying to make me laugh. Nada. It was their doom. First, their paint started fading.

Then their pom-pom buttons began to pop off, one by one. Their clown hats became flaccid and their long shoes shriveled and shrank. The clowns were dying, and it was all my fault.

Fortunately, I had an extensive background in Clown Surgery, having performed many an extraction as a child, and I had become a specialist in the removal of the funny bone

, humorous as that may be. No, I was ready to operate. Dabbing the sweat & white paint from my brow, I straightened my bow tie, snapped my suspenders, & dug in.