From the original article on April 22, 2008. Author: Chateau Heartiste.
The circus is a great daytime event to take a girl for a third date. It’s thooper dooper gay, because the performers are very happy and always smiling. The spectators are smiling, the clowns are smiling, everyone is gay and joyous. So fabulously gay! The happy smiling gayness puts your date in a positive upbeat mood, even if the brat sitting next to her got cotton candy in her hair. Plus, it gives you and her plenty to ridicule, including all the kids in the audience on sugar highs, and as we know nothing bonds like shared mockery. Making fun of people has been the catalyst for sexual congress for thousands of generations.
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Girls holding hands in the club are circus elephants. The girl in the lead dragging her friends around is the alpha elephant. The fattest elephant was the caboose.
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Here are the girls complimenting each other on how good their asses look in those new jeans.
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I caught the human cannonball mid-blast. His trajectory and distance reminded me of my jizzbombs. I wished my money shots made the cannon noise.
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The guy standing on the elephant is the central circus character. He’s sort of a half-clown, half-Shakespearean tragic figure for the 21st century who pretends to pine for one of the beautiful trapeze artists. His clown makeup was not the scary kind with the big red nose and lips. He just had tall hair and maybe some pastel colored lip gloss which I’m told was poppin’. I read that clown school is more selective than Harvard, so only the best graduate and go on to work for one of the major circus outfits, like Ringling or Cirque du Soleil. It showed. This guy was a Renaissance man, skilled in acrobatics, athletics, fashion, drama, and animal husbandry. My date was ogling him. I began to regret my choice of venue.
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There was padding under the high wire. Big letdown. The high wire guy was Latino, the human pyramid balancing act was Chinese, and the lion tamer was East European. Stereotypes R Us.
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I like this photo. I caught the tiger in mid diving ass rape. Surprize buttsecks!
I wrote before about planning creative dates if you want to build a stronger emotional bond with a girl. The circus definitely fits that bill, and judging by the number of couples I saw there mixed in with all the families I’m not the only one who follows the wisdom of my words. A good idea for those masochists who are dating lawyers is to bring her to the circus and if she doesn’t crack a smile once or bitches about the uncomfortable seats you can pay off one of the clowns to harass her with animal balloons shaped like overgrown clits.
Aside from its date potential, I was a little disappointed by the whole spectacle. The circus is a major production now, polished, snappy, and fast-paced, all business no heart. Kiosk after kiosk sold cheap plastic trinkets to shovel into the consumerist maw. It wouldn’t be out of place in the Mall of America. There were no monkeys in hats on organ grinders. No animals taking dumps in the middle of the ring. No poop or hay smells. No bearded ladies, tri-breasted midgets, fire breathers, knife throwers, or Siamese twins. I was hoping for the old grimy circuses of yore you always see in the movies; the ones where you could go behind the big tent and catch a few angry looking balding clowns playing a game of poker and drinking gin through crazy straws. Maybe one of them tells you to “Get lost, kid!” and you find yourself backing into the psychic’s tent who curses in Latin and hisses like a snake when she pulls the Goatse card for you.
No such luck. The only freaks there were the PETA protestors. You can blame the fucking lawyers for this.
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