The Eclectic Mix

Editor’s Note: You will recall that last week we blogged about a clown seen waiting for his bus every morning. We wondered aloud here about his purpose in life, his raison d’clowniness, if you will. Well, we finally screwed up our courage and stopped and asked him just what he’s doing. In the end, we asked him to join our happy little band as a guest blogger. Below is his debut entry.

Hey, hey! [I'm honking my little toy horn right now, but you probably can't see that.]

Hi, my name is Happy, and I’m the layoff clown.

What started as a little side business during the sky-high gas prices and minor economic downturn following the terrorist attacks on September 11th has certainly blossomed in the last year.

You see, companies that are facing massive layoffs are increasingly trying to find ways to keep their soon-to-be-former employees happy, at least until they’re escorted out of the door, if for no other reason than to make sure they don’t trash the place. Severance packages just aren’t what they used to be, I guess, and I was told it always scared the willies out of employees to see roving bands of free-range HR personnel striding through departments in search of their next kill.

So I struck on an idea. Everyone has some strong feeling toward clowns–either good or bad–but people tend not to actually resort to physical violence with them regardless of their opinion of us “happy folk.” I mean, when’s the last time you’d heard about a clown getting whacked, right? I’d been a rodeo clown back in high school in Greasy, Oklahoma (yeah, it’s real…look it up), so I kind of knew the ropes. I went down to the Goodwill and picked up a few outfits, started teaching myself juggling, and picked up some face paint. Then I offered myself up to HR departments to do their dirty work for them. I figured “who could be angry with a clown when you get fired?”

I started out small, doing firings in Starbucks and McDonalds, things like that. It went well, and word got out about my skills. Then about a year or more ago, when the downturn really kicked in, I got some big clients downtown. I can’t name names, you understand, contractually, but it’s been big business for me.

My usual method is to walk into the department, blowing up and twisting balloon animals and giving them out, then going to the person who’s being let go. In their balloon, I’ve rolled up their pink slip, and as I’m twisting their balloon animal (I’m really good at giraffes), I let it pop, and the pink slip falls in their lap. They pick it up, read it, look at me kinda shocked-like, and I honk my nose and leave the room. Everyone else is too distracted to notice what happened, and the security guards escort out the former employee right after I leave.

Though I have to say that my favorite method of letting people know they’ve been let go is to go in, horn honking, take off my hat, pull out my juggling balls, juggle for a few minutes, let out a few hearty clownish chortles, and then pull the seltzer bottle from the holster on the back of my pants, and spray them in the face. While they’re drying off, I hand them the pink slip. They’re usually too stunned to realize what’s happening until they’re in the lobby.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t really like doing this, I mean, who really likes laying people off? Obviously not the HR people, or else I wouldn’t have a job. I mean, these people could have families, or be days away from qualifying for their pension or something. I might be a clown, but I still have a heart. But the world needs more smiles and laughter. That’s what I’m trying to do here–spread a few good times in a dark, dreary, unhappy world. [honk, honk]

Business is pretty good. I used to just head downtown to do things on Mondays and Fridays, but then companies started laying people off any day of the week. In fact, things have gotten so busy, I’ve had to bring in an intern. His name is Ron. Most recently, he’s been with middle management at some big operation up north somewhere. I didn’t catch the specifics because he’s really a pretty funny guy. Maybe next time I’ll have him tell you his story. Fortunately as an intern, I don’t have to pay him, but I’m sure as he comes along, I’ll probably hire him on, so then I’ll have a real cottage industry going on here. The Twin Cities’ Business Journal wants to do a story of me for next month.

And I’ll answer the questions everyone seems to ask: Yes, I wear the outfit and makeup all day. To work and back on the bus. Walking from building to building downtown. Even at lunch at Arby’s or the Hard Rock Cafe. It’s important to stay in character when in public. If I’m going to be a clown that day, I need to be the clown all day when I’m out in public. No one can see the person behind the face paint.

And yes. I have a wife. Chuckles. We met at a clown convention in Branson. She had the most adorable red nose when we met. It matched her hair perfectly. She liked my idea so much, she’s working on perfecting her act so she can cheer up families at funerals. She’s good. I know she can do it.

So there you go. A look at this clown’s life. Next time you see me, just hope it’s not in your office.

Editor’s note: We received this message from Ron, the elf intern, earlier this week. After editing for content, we present his message to the world here.

Hey, Ron here. With the holidays coming very quickly, I thought I’d give everyone an update on what I’ve been doing since the last time I sent you a message.

I worked many jobs in Winnipeg before the Canadian authorities deported me to, of all places, Iceland. Which, once it really got deep into it’s financial problems, deported me to Greenland. From there, I rode an ice flow north to the polar ice shelf and then made my way back to the North Pole.

After my failures of last year, it should come as no surprise that few of the elves were happy to see me back. But I puffed out my chest, looked them straight in the eyes, and told them I had had management training while I was south.

In a sense, this is true, though mostly, it wasn’t. I tried to put forth ideas that I believed would be beneficial in whatever workplace I found myself in: at OfficeMax, where I was the in-store overnight security guard, I decided that blockading the door was far more effective than relying solely on locks and the camera system. That worked fine until the manager came the next morning and found $47,000 worth of desks, printers, fax machines, paper and filing cabinets pushed up against the glass doors. By the time the forklift finally punched through the 8-foot-thick walls I had built overnight, he had fired me 42 times on the walkie-talkies we all are required to wear. He told me that I was the most “inept and generally useless” employee he had ever hired.

But what impressed Tricia in HR was my experience working for the Canadian National Health Care system. My experience with bureaucracy apparently gave her great confidence in my abilities.

And so I was hired. As middle management.

I liaise between upper management–being Santa and his close elfin advisers–who determine production quotas, product lines, distribution plans, and the like; and lower management–being the actual floor managers who see to it that those plans are carried out. My job, as a middle manager, is the perfect use of my bureaucratic skills, as I am now ensuring that synergies are maintained, meetings are attended, memos are sent and received, egos are massaged, org charts are kept up-to-date, and inept and useless employees are immediately reassigned or fired for infractions ranging from failing to meet quotas to bad-mouthing upper management. Santa’s really kind of picky about that. Well, okay, he’s not. But I’m sure he would be if he heard some of the things I’ve heard the lower management report that the floor workers are saying about him.

As it stands, though, I am a little sad that I don’t have time in my new position to offer constructive thoughts on how to better manage production and rearrange some of the factory floors. But I am certain that if I keep doing my job as I have been, I can rise to upper management and offer my ideas from there. I have a few thoughts on the reindeer team that I would like to implement.

Merry Christmas to all from the North Pole!

Editor’s Note: In going through the voluminous mail we receive here at The Eclectic Mix, we encountered the following letter from Ron, the elf intern, whom we last heard from as he attempted to find his working niche at the production facilities at the North Pole.

Wednesday, January 16

Dear Friends,

I arrived late last Friday night in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. Having been dispatched from the North Pole by Vicki, my HR rep, who assured me that the polar ice cap would melt before I could find a job that I could perform without killing a co-worker, I was given $200 and enough whale blubber to make it from the North Pole to somewhere south of the 50th parallel.

I found an inexpensive room at a “Motel 6,” and went out in search of a job. I found one that very weekend, working at a restaurant called “McDonalds.” They appear to be a local chain of some sort, as I have seen several of their familiar yellowish arched signs in the area.

At the time I was hired, I was asked if my lack of height was caused by “heredity, disease, or environmental issues.” I had no idea what any of this meant, but assured the manager that all of my people are somewhere around 4 feet tall. He seemed pleased, saying that he would get great praise for his employee diversity. I am glad that my elfin background could help him in his career.

I began work this past Monday morning, receiving my training on “the line” from a nice young woman named “Consuela”. She showed me the process to make the various “McMuffins” this restaurant is famous for, though after eating one, I’m not entirely sure how that’s possible. It is a sandwich for breakfast that is, quite frankly, bland and almost uniformly chewy. I made it a goal to improve on it during my time at the restaurant.

I was also introduced to using the fryer, a device which contains hot oil for the purpose of cooking several of the items on the menu. I have never seen one of these before, and I find it amusing. I tried one of the “hash browns” when I had my breakfast sandwich and came to a realization: their whole menu needs powdered sugar.

At the North Pole, all of our food is built on sugar in its many forms, and there has never been a dish served there that could not be improved by adding a little sugar. Puddings, cakes, pies, cookies, even the whale blubber all benefits from powdered sugar. I asked Consuela where they kept their cache of powedered sugar, but she looked at me confused. Finding none, I instead set about emptying 1,087 packets of sugar, “Sweet-N-Low” and “Splenda” into a shaker I found sitting on the draining unit next to the deep fryer. With the first basket of hash browns out of the fryer, I shook on the sugar and placed the patties into their bags for serving.

Shortly thereafter, the manager called me aside to ask if I was the “freaking idiot” who replaced the salt in the shaker with sugar. I said I was, saying I felt it was an improvement to their menu items. He berated me and pointed at the lineup of dissatisfied customers at the counter. “Salt!” He yelled. “Salt goes on fries and hash browns, eh?! Not sugar, eh?!” I told him I didn’t understand because everyone loves sugar.

Then he told me to go clean the bathrooms.

I finished my shift cleaning the bathrooms and mopping the floors and was told to not enter the kitchen for the rest of the day.

Yesterday morning, I returned, with several large bags of powdered sugar with me, certain that any perceived transgressions were quickly forgotten. I was sure that if I could find the right amount of sugar to put on the hash browns, all would be forgiven. I found, however, that they were not. I was assigned to the bathrooms and floors again.

In addition, I was told to empty the trash cans.

Tomorrow, I will bring in some whale blubber I have left from my voyage and fry it and try it on the “McMuffins.” I’ve never salted whale blubber, but perhaps if I try that approach, they will like it better.

I will write again as I have more news.

Ron.

Editor’s Note: We welcome the addition of Pippin, the Lathrop family cat, as a contributor to the site. We have no idea how she managed to make today’s entry, but we will be locking the PC in the future to prevent such things. While some aspects of it are somewhat scary, we will let it go as entered.

Last evening, while I was trying to sleep on my slave’s lap (Ed. note: we believe this is referring to Paul, but we aren’t entirely sure), I was forced to overhear conversation between he and the other one that they have purchased a new transport vehicle.

Personally, I abhor the things. they are perpetually noisy, uncomfortable, and constantly in motion, which does not agree with me at all. I have lived through how many previous incarnations and do not wish to travel quickly from one place to another. I know that the large smelly creatures (dogs-Ed.) like them and enjoy hanging their heads out of the viewing windows. But this is not for me. I prefer grass under paw when I am outside, the gentle breeze passing through my fur, not rushing past at some breakneck speed.

The talk was about something called a “99 Honda Odyssey.” What this means, I’ll never know. I understand the odyssey part as I lead one during one of my early incarnations, yet Honda appears to be a proper name of some sort. I hope it means food. I would like for the family of slaves to go on a constant odyssey to bring me food. Especially since I have apparently been banned from eating their food. Why I am stuck eating these dry formed morsels, while they enjoy their ice cream, fresh meats and milk, I will never know. I know my sensitive constitution does not agree with much of it, but the pleasure is in the eating, side-effects be damned. I’m 112 years old. I deserve to eat what I wish and let my body sort itself out in such matters. That’s why my slaves are here: to love me, feed me what I wish, and clean up after me whilst I plot their ultimate downfall. I do not, however, understand what 99 has to do with it. I do not believe that means it carries 99, nor that there are 99 odysseys that it can go on simultaneously. I will try to find out what that means. When I want to.

I am, however, greatly heartened to see the pleasure the humans have taken in their new conveyance. While they have not yet brought it home, I have heard they have looked at it on their electronic viewing windows, and there was a lot of excited chatter, particularly between the smaller ones.

Now that my life is finally improving with the disappearance of the large fuzzy one (Felix-Ed.) and long periods of peaceful rest on top of the warm air floor vent, this seems to be the perfect next step in the progression.

Perhaps now that they have that, they will leave the house more on their odyssey and leave me alone. Except when I want to be fed and showered with affection. Yes, that’s what I believe Honda means: food and attention.

Now leave me alone. It’s been 15 minutes since my last nap.

Editor’s Note: In order to expand the scope of our happy little blog here, we have invited Ron, the newest intern at the North Pole to contribute his experiences on his first few days of work on one of the many toy manufacturing lines in Santa’s workshop. In response to our request for some information from his first days, he sent us some entries from his journal.

Saturday, December 1st

I reported to Vicki, my HR rep for wooden toy production, this morning and had a ton of paperwork to fill out: tax forms, health insurance waivers, non-compete clause. I asked if that was all really necessary, since I’m just joining the firm as a seasonal intern, but she assured me that they needed the paperwork for legal reasons.

After that, I went into a 7-hour new employee orientation session. I am now confident that I will not sexually harass any of my coworkers.

Sunday, December 2nd

I was a little put out to discover that because November and December are our heavy-production months, there are no days off, and no weekends off until December 26th. Of course, I discover this only after I sleep until 11 and receive a phone call from Vicki asking where I was while I was finishing the sudoku and eating my Wheaties.

I got to the workshop around 1 and Vicki took me to line 28 to begin my “wooden assembly training.” She “handed me off” to Grant, the manager for lines 25, 28 and 29, and he took me into the training room.

Once there, he demonstrated gluing techniques, basic sanding, hammer work, and at the end, introduced me to the pneumatic nail gun. He said when he returns from the hospital tomorrow to have the 6 nails removed from his butt, we’ll continue training.

Monday, December 3rd

I arrived early this morning, and beat Grant to the training room. He arrived, obviously still in pain and uncomfortable, but resumed our training with the nail gun.

Once the paramedics took Grant away to the hospital for treatment of the dozen or so nails in his forehead, Vicki came to take me to line 4 to be trained there in the painting department.

I swear that between the kickback from the gun and its sticky trigger, it wasn’t my fault.

Tuesday, December 4th

Jose, line 4’s manager, took me directly to the line this morning and had me work with Barbara to paint the rosy cheeks on porcelain dolls. She very methodically showed me how she used an airbrush to apply just a split second spray of red paint onto each cheek of each doll. She showed me the settings, the mixture, how to clean the nozzle, and then how the briefest little press on the button applied just the right amount of paint. After her watching her perform her artistry on 15 or so dolls, she handed me the airbrush and a doll.

As God is my witness, I tried. First, I was putting on too much, and she kept telling me the dolls were “too tarty.” I tried putting less on, then the nozzle clogged, and as I went to clean it, I hit the button and a heavy coat of red paint covered all the dolls in her work area.

As Vicki led me away, she said that it would be OK. They’d find a market for all red dolls in Venezuela or Cuba or something.

Wednesday, December 5th

I awoke early, certain that today would be the day that my string of bad luck would end. I reported to Vicki’s office before she was even there. When she arrived, she told me I’d be assigned to “Custodial Services” today. I’ve never heard of that group of elves before, but it sounded important. I mean, they’re in custody of something, right?

Imagine disappointment when I discover that they only thing they’re really in custody of is a broom.

I’m sent back to line 28 to sweep up the sawdust under the sawing stations. Grant sees me when I arrive and keeps a close watch over me all day long.