Bozo was a boozer. No one was really that sad to see him go. There was, however, that final surprise on that sunny day at the cemetery.
There we were with our limp gag flowers on our lapels thinking back over his accomplishments, there were the stale sandwiches we forgot we were eating as he cycled around balancing his poodle on his head. And I had to give him credit for the sad look in his eyes as he pedaled. It was a nice flourish–that extra something.
We almost forgot that we argued the whole way there as we took our seats late in the middle of his act. We were young and in love when he slipped on that banana peel in time to the beat of a since forgotten melody.
In later years I came to appreciate his sincerity–his avant garde side–that so many missed. The way he took a cream pie to the face really summed up the banality of it all for me.
And now here we are watching the pall bearers pull casket after casket out of his little black hearse. Did Bozo really think we had all day for this kind of statement?