Back in my college days, I tried my hand at picking up a few dollars by entertaining as a birthday party clown. My outfit was home made, and designed to project the image of a hobo clown. All the normal pitfalls were quickly experienced, like kids trying to pull off the clown nose, fending off juvenile fists that tried to use me like a punching bag made of rubber, chaos and mayhem upon each one of my arrivals. Still, despite the beatings and abuse, I was determined to excel at my craft.

Part of my outfit was a tattered, long wool coat, which worked well for quite some time, until summer arrived. I attended a party that was held in the backyard out on the lawn. It was a blazing hot day of 90 plus degrees, and I was performing my vigorous act out in the yard with no shade, wearing my wool coat. I was running from the children, tumbling, and cavorting to keep the frenzied kids happy, and give them a party to remember. To put it delicately, the conditions were ripe for perspiration, and my deodorant would have failed if they were spraying it on with a fire hose. Everything worked well as long as I stayed out of range, but inevitably, one child finally got close enough to smell the roses so to speak. The kid stopped in his tracks when he hit the invisible wall, and he ran to where his mother was seated comfortably on the patio.

The little guy spoke loud enough to carry the announcement to all in attendance, Clown stinks, Mommy!

A little embarrassed by her sons announcement, the mother replied with that all knowing certainty that moms use to reassure their children, Wellyoud stink too if you jumped around as much as he does.

Satisfied with her answer, the kid enjoyed the rest of the show, but kept his distance. With a closing flourish, a few more high jumps to land flat on my back, I finished the job, got my bucks, and split. The wool coat had lent a little too much realism to the role, so I ditched it. After I hydrated myself, I decided I had visited what must truly be clown hell.