My innards cooked beneath the spotlights as I sat on display before the cameras. I could feel the lights melting the acrylic paint off of my face.This was both my debut, as well as the death of my infomercial acting career, as a jovial knife selling clown. Finally, after five years of failed auditions, I was finally recognized.There would be no more; “Sorry Gary, but your voice is too high pitched. Maybe try vocal coaching or testosterone.” Or “We lost your file, try somewhere else.” I was finally living my dreams, —at least that’s what I thought.
Sweat slicked and ran from my receding hairline, to my elongated forehead, as the director counted down; “Three, two …” and signaled for me to begin. “Hi, I’m Gary Potter, and today, I’m going to be showing you the power of the ‘it’s knife to meat you,’ knife set, by Gacy Incorporated. They’re so good, you’ll be …” my voice trailed off, as I strained to read the teleprompter. I couldn’t question anything, this was my one shot to make it big in the infomercial industry. “So good they’ll make you blood thirsty!” My voice shook with each word, and I picked up one of the steak knives. “Here, watch me slice this carrot.” It made a clean cut, and I swept the remains into the built in trash can. “It even goes through …” I stopped for a moment, and cleared my throat. “A human femur … like butter.” The teleprompter instructed me to rub my belly and moan in pleasure. “Mmm …” Moan louder! Instructed the teleprompter. “MMM …” I tried being more enthusiastic, but I was prompted in big red letters LOUDER! I moaned out in pleasure, similarly to when I … never mind.
Just as I got to the hunk of mystery meat near me, four clowns came out from backstage on unicycles, and juggled bowling pins. This was not in the script I was given. In a Russian accent they chanted: “Gacy, Gacy, you’ll make tasty, nice and sweet, just like meat!” They unicycled around me menacingly. The set was bright and colorful, which made me nauseous. “Excuse me, will thé owner of a …” I eyed the room, and read the teleprompter again. “Red … Volkswagen Beetle see the valet? You’re … parked in a fire lane …” The clowns scattered, and hurried swiftly on their unicycles toward the exit.
I could feel my makeup running down my face with the sweat. I knew everyone could see the sad shell of a man I was through the face paint. I shifted my thick framed glasses and read the instructions. “It even … c-cuts through the sweetest kind of meat …” my eyes widened in horror, as I stepped back. “Human?!” I nearly vomited as I began to laugh nervously. “Just kidding … it’s a … it’s a … raw pork steak … folks, just … pork.” Just as a live bear in a fez and a red button up, and two sad, hairy clowns with bellies that muffined out of their elastic pants emerged from backstage with sparklers, the director threw one of the chef’s knives cutting but one of the hairs on my head.
“Cut! Cut, cut, cut, cut CUT!” He shrieked, and stormed up to me, his palm slapping his head several times. “No, no, no, no! You’re too sweaty and nervous. I want to be represented by a good, happy clown. Not a scared clown, with melty make up. You’re cut from the advertisement!” He guffawed in my face, “You’re a sad clown, Potter.” I took my red nose off, and set it calmly on the table. I didn’t bother to wipe the acrylic makeup off my face, but instead, I vowed to keep my job as a telemarketer.
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