“I’m thinking of becoming a mime,” the clown announces. “You know, still along the clown lines, but classier. What do you think?”
I think I’ve become a mime, since I’ve lost the ability to speak. I know this guy tokes a lot, but c’mon, how fried does your brain have to be to assume that there’s a “classy” version of clowns? I don’t even know how to dignify this numbnuts with a response. Linus’s method is to dig up some highbrow words.
“How avant-garde. An eloquent and impassioned conveyance through fluid improvisation and sans articulation.”
The clown’s eyeballs freeze like a pair of fogged-up goggles. Good thing he has a backup plan, because “intellectual” is clearly off the list. I try to keep things—namely Leonard the Clown—moving along.
“Hey, you should grab a seat,” I prompt. “The
