The problem with clowns are they could be anyone. All the people you see walking around you right now, they could be one. Clowns are crafty and they hide. You can tell a monkey from a mile away. Even when out of the suit, you can tell who we are. It is more then the suit with us. It is our whole being. A clown is always posing to be something else, to get your trust. Just trust them a little and bam, out comes the nose, red and round. One for them and one for you.
Can’t trust them. Now a monkey you can. Monkey ain’t got the time to put up a front. A monkey is for the good things. Food fuck and shit. What more could you need. Maybe a little party, a little back scratch. Could always be dead tomorrow so might as well have a good time. Clowns say they are all about the good time but really they’re too pent up for a real good time. It’s all about suppression and control. About assembling an audience and converting them to their ways. Us monkeys don’t need an audience. A monkey by himself is still a pretty good monkey. A clown can fall on his face all day, but with out an audience to laugh, a clown is worthless.
But because they are “theater folk”, clowns are all about the attitude. All about thinking how awesome and superior they are. All about belittling us, patronizing us, feeling like they are our betters, our masters. Monkeys got no masters my friend, my white faced compadre. Monkeys are as free as the jungle, and twice as dangerous. We make the jungle dangerous. We are the jungle, we are the mountain. We are the wild and the wild doesn’t care how clever you think you might be.
Clowns can’t stand us. That freedom. That lack of forethought, pretence. Everything in a clown’s life is worked out to the billionth degree in a futile hope to get maximum effect. They are draftsmen, not artists. And though what they do might be nice, how a box might be nice, right angles and perpendicular lines, it is always hollow.
That’s how the war started. Clowns found that there was something that they could absorb from us monkeys, nothing they had innately, or could ever have, but something they could take. Anyone can be a clown. Even a monkey. Give a monkey a red nose and some baggy pants. You have not a monkey, but a clown making fun of a monkey. A bastardization. The monkey can never be pure again after selling out his race like this. Can never come back into the fold after getting that clown stink all over him. Us monkeys don’t like our heritage being mocked like that. Like traitors even less. Monkey comes crawling back, that’s a dead monkey. Pardon me, that’s a dead monkey clown.
And the clowns just love seeing our numbers dwindle like that. Love how the week among us are so easily seduced by the promise of likeability, respectability. Gushings from the mindless hoards that frequent their little tent shows. A monkey can never get that kind of wide acceptance, nor would we want it. It would taint our primal monkiness. Change us. You see the tainted monkeys everywhere. You probably are one. You are either Monkey, Clown, or Taint. Two of those ain’t no use to me.
To protect our numbers, to uphold or wild traditions of Eat Fuck Shit, we added Hunt and Kill to the mix. We had to go on the defensive. Couldn’t just sit back and watch our young get swallowed up and turned into these homeless creatures with no identity, no family. We had to stop the initiation. Reveal the clowns to be what they truly are. Taint that wishes to be a monkey, but so incredibly processed by civilization they are sad overzealous freaks. Only Taint can enjoy that pathetic display. It looks like freedom. It looks fun I guess. But it is designed so, meticulously designed so, to get you to come over, join the circus, be one that is in full agreement that what they are is what they say it is. If there is no one around to disagree, their façade becomes real.
But they will never be us. Never be a monkey. Never be true. And they know it. And they hate it. Ever wonder why most clowns are unhappy. They know they aren’t anything more then grease paint covering a lie, covering a sick twisted soul wishing it never left the jungle. Cause once you are out, you are out. No coming back. You’d infect the brotherhood. Can’t have it. You are out, so you stay out. That is why being a monkey is a privilege, and one that must be protected even if blood has to be spilled.
We’ve had some come back. Crawl back. Even had some clowns want to join up, get a suit, grunt and E.F.S. We don’t always eat them. Most of the time we eat them. But sometimes we let them hang around and give us money and safe houses and what not. It ruins their rep amongst the taints, puts them on the clown hit list, but by that point they want nothing to do with the hordes, that just want to be near something real. And when the clowns come around to wack them, they get a face full of pissed off monkey and a gut full of blade.
This has been going on forever. I’ve fought the war for as long as I’ve been able to walk and swing a bush ax at the some time. And it will go on and on until not every clown is dead, but when everyone who even remembers a clown is dead. Their memory has to be washed from the minds of all the Taints. Their images stripped from the text books. Their red noses all burned and the ashes scattered, and the big top buried. Only then can a monkey live in peace among the Taints, not that we care.
Eat Fuck Shit and Death to the Clowns!