Fox And Clown [FICTOID]

“I feel so resentful,” said the fox to the clown.  “I feel like everyone is putting me down.”

“Your problem,” said the clown, “is that you don't drink enough.  You can tolerate anything if you drink the right stuff.”

“I want to stay healthy,” said the fox in return.  “Alcohol's a poison, didn't you learn?”

“We all got to go,” said the clown in reply.  “I'm staying pickled until the day that I die.”

“That's a futile philosophy,” the fox retorted, “no matter if the poison is domestic or imported.”

“When I go,” said the clown, “I'll wear a big grin.  Just find me a grave and shovel me in.” 

“Your grin’s painted on,” said the sad old fox.  “It's fake, phony joy -- you're dying of pox!”

“That I am,” said the clown, “though I don't give a hoot.  When I'm dead wrap me up, shove me down the chute.”

“You're too big and too fat,” the fox complained.  “I'll throw out my back, I'll suffer a sprain.”

“Hire an undertaker,” the clown finally said.  “He knows how to transport and bury the dead.”  

“True, he'll have a hearse,” said the fox once again.  “We'll box you and ship you without any pain.”

“Not just me,” said the clown, “but my brothers, too.  We're clowns, dadgummit, a rollicking crew.”

“Like clowns in a clown car,” said the fox with a nod.  “A mountain of clown corpses to ship off to God.”

“Not God,” said the clown, “but Satan below.  We're liars and lunatics but one helluva show.”

“No rest in peace?” the fox did inquire. “No wings, no halos, no heavenly choir?”

“Our choir sings at midnight,” said the clown with great glee, “drunk as a skunk but damn it, we're free!”

© Buzz Dixon