Do I really need to elaborate? Really?
Well, if you insist.
These blanc buffoons place themselves in my line of ire the minute they rock the whiteface. Dammit to hell, Marcel Marceau! What have you done?
Riddle me curious but what compels a kookaloo (in French, kookalou) to tumble down the rabbit hole and sign up for a mime class? Did he have a grandparent who always seemed to have trouble with his invisible umbrella on windy days? Did she see a Doug Henning special in the 70s that made her hot for French sailor shirts? Does he think miming will lend him a certain je ne sais quoi? I do know what. Il est stupide.
Mimes need to be rounded up and herded into a box in front of the Centre Pompidou. Tag these douchegoofs with a black-and-white computer chip. And if anyone tries to escape the box, imaginary or otherwise, I’m going to throw back a pain au chocolat before going un peu Marquis de Sade on the rogue clown by choking him with his fey neckerchief. There won’t be a need to draw a sad clown teardrop near his right eye. Those tears will be real, mon ami.
Clowns may be creepy, but mimes are the fiends who moonwalk through my nightmares.
(Photo: mimethegap.com. Seriously.)