Mr. Gardener walked right into the gray conference room. He stepped up to the podium, cleared his throat, tapped the microphone, and pied the face of an 8-year-old girl in the front row. Having successfully pied the girl in the face, Mr. Gardener walked back to the podium where he found the 2 pies underneath and sprinted to pie the girl again.
“Welcome to the Circus Clown Technical Demonstration Conference,” said Mr. Gardener into his hands free microphone. “What I just did is a called a Triple Pie Bozo Slap, and I’ll demonstrate it again on the next person who speaks.”
“But sir,” said an 80-year-old man in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank next to the crying 8 year-old-girl. “I think you are in the wrong room.”
Mr. Gardener picked up his briefcase and calmly walked up to the man. He crouched down to the elderly man’s height and opened the briefcase, demonstrating the 3 pies inside. Mr. Gardener quickly dumped the pies onto the floor and closed the now empty briefcase on the man’s head.
“Clowns, clowns, clowns. Rule number one: Never do what you tell the audience you are going to do. What I just did is called is called an East Coast Briefcase Punch, and this time I’ll actually demonstrate it on the next person who speaks.”
“But we are not clowns,” said Brendan, a 9-year-old boy in the second row.
Mr. Gardener launched the briefcase at Brendan’s face.
“Once again, the East Coast Briefcase Punch.”
“Sir!” said a teacher named Ms. Commons from the back of the room. “We are not circus clowns! You are in the wrong room!”
Mr. Gardener climbed over the crowd with his fire extinguisher, got to the back of the room, and emptied the whole can on Ms. Commons, acting as if it was so powerful as to knock him onto the ground for comedic effect.
“The ‘67 Shimmy.”
“None of us are clowns,” said Hank, a 90-year old man in the front, as quiet as a whisper.
“You mean to tell me,” said Mr. Gardener, looking out upon the room full of elderly men and elementary school aged children, “that you are not formally trained circus clowns?”
Ms. Commons wiped fire extinguisher residue off of her mouth. “We are a 2nd grade class on a field trip to visit veterans. The people in this room are 2nd graders and veterans. This is the Cleveland Veterans Center.”
Mr. Gardener packed up his briefcase, headed towards the door, and turned around, exclaiming, “I’m afraid I’m in the wrong Veterans Center, everybody.”