Edgar was on a collision course with destiny. He just didn’t know it yet. Which is not unusual, if the scientific research on destiny is to be believed. In fact, according to an article by Caflisch et. al. that was recently published in the Journal of Irreproducible Results, a statistically significant majority of people who are on collision courses with destiny rarely, if ever, have any inkling of what is about to befall them. And so it was with Edgar.

When he woke up last Saturday morning, the world to Edgar seemed about as normal as it had seemed the Saturday before that, in addition to being as normal as the Saturday before that one and even more or less as normal as the Saturday before the Saturday that seemed as normal as the Saturday before the Saturday that found him waking up and finding the world pretty much as normal as ever, which puts us more or less right back to the Saturday that we started out talking about in case you got confused in there somehow. So Edgar got out of bed, fed the cat, lit a cigarette, turned on the television and started the coffee maker.

And that, my friends, is when destiny came knocking on his door. Now, in Edgar’s case, this particular destiny took the form of one Gertrude MacFarland, an attractive, blue-eyed, fair-haired young thing with the cutest little dimply cheeks who, it so happens, had just moved into apartment 2B across the hall. Not that destiny always takes the form of Gertrude MacFarland, mind you, nor does it necessarily come with blue eyes or fair hair or dimply cheeks, and in most cases neither does it live in apartments that are conveniently located right across the hall. It’s just that, in Edgar’s case, it did.

“Gee, I wonder who that could be,” mused Edgar upon hearing the knocking on his door. “Perhaps, if I’m lucky, it might be someone like the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol, complete with cameras and tv crew and a great big oversized check for millions and millions upon millions of dollars.” He took a step toward the door.

“Though I suppose it’s just as likely that it could be a squad of IRS agents come to arrest me for making some obscure, innocent mathematical miscalculation on last year’s tax return, and they’ll want to make an example out of me by throwing me in some cell block in a remote prison somewhere that nobody’s ever heard of, and I’ll find myself sharing a cell with some sort of unseemly criminal type who doesn’t bother to shower or bathe or brush his teeth, and the next thing you know, I’ll never be seen or heard from again.” Edgar took a step back.

Meanwhile, out in the hallway, Gertrude MacFarland was becoming impatient. She could hear the television playing. She could smell the coffee brewing. She could even hear someone muttering. Certain that somebody was home, but that perhaps they just didn’t hear her the first time she knocked, she rapped on the door a second time. For destiny, it seems, has a way of being persistent like that when it’s on a collision course with someone.

“Oh my,” said Edgar upon hearing the knocking for a second time upon his door. “Whatever it is, it’s not going away.” And so, he walked over and opened the door, because to continue putting off his encounter with destiny would be foolish in a story of this length, especially when you consider that the whole thing is supposed to be about Edgar being on a collision course with destiny, and if he never gets around to opening the door, then we’ll never get around to seeing how it all turns out in the end, and the story might as well end itself right here. Not that that would be a bad thing, necessarily. It’s just that, at this point in the story, Edgar has not yet collided with anything even remotely resembling destiny. So, while you may be starting to feel like there’s something else you’d rather be doing right now – you know, instead of sitting there reading this story – well, we’re not quite done yet, okay?

“Hi, I’m Gertrude,” said the vision of loveliness standing before him. “I just moved into apartment 2B across the hall, and I was wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar.”

Edgar felt his heart skip a beat. A twinkle glistened in Gertrude’s eye. The two of them fell hopelessly, helplessly, impetuously, and immediately in love, and they were married the very next Saturday.

They did not, however, live happily ever after. In fact, their happiness only lasted but a few hours at best. For it was on their wedding night that Gertrude revealed to Edgar that she had had a sex change operation a couple years back, and that, while her name was now Gertrude, she had started out life as a boy named Gerald.

“Gerald?” said Edgar in disbelief. “No, that can’t be. Please, Gertrude, please say it isn’t so.”

“I’m sorry, Edgar, but it’s true. I used to be a guy – a guy just like you, in fact.”

“Oh, Gertrude, if you only knew. You see, I used to have this twin brother, but somehow we were accidentally separated at birth. All I ever knew about him was his name. And his name was … his name was … Gerald!”

Fortunately for Edgar, the following Tuesday a squad of agents from the IRS showed up at his door, placed him under arrest, mumbled something about making an example out of him, and whisked him away to an undisclosed prison located somewhere in New Mexico.

They say he was never happier.

"Who's That Knocking at My Door?"

Copyright: © 2011 Michael Pelc

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In a time that was very near to the beginning, but not quite the beginning itself, there used to be life on all the planets in the solar system. And God looked down upon the abundance of life that He had created and saw that it was good.

For the most part.

He had, it seems, a bit of a problem with the third planet, the one He called Earth. For, unlike all the other planets that God had created, there was no laughter on Earth. No laughter at all.

And the absence of laughter on Earth so troubled God that He set about creating a committee by which He and representatives from all the other planets might discuss the matter.

"You need a clown, that's what you need," said the representative from Jupiter, thumping its margalon on the table for emphasis.

"A clown? What's a clown?" asked God.

"You know, something funny-looking," said the Martian. "Something that'll make you laugh just to look at it."

"Do you know of anything like that?" asked God.

The Martian leaned back in its chair and stroked its dilligaff thoughtfully. "Yes," it said after a moment, "I believe I do. In fact, I think we might have just what you're looking for right here on Mars."

"Really? Tell me, tell me, what does it look like? Does it have any fur?"

"Yes. Well, not all over. But in spots it does, though it calls it by a different name as I recall."

"And where exactly is this fur, or whatever it is?"

"Well, it's got some on the very top, of course. Oh yes, and then there's a patch of it right near its dingley-dangley thing, as well."

"It has a dingley-dangley thing?"

"Oh, heavens yes. Waggles it all over the place, it does. Not only that, but it appears to be quite proud of it." Then, for dramatic effect, the Martian leaned in close to God's ear and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, "even though it's really quite small and hard to see from anything more than just a few zickers away."

The room erupted in laughter.

God's face broke out into a huge smile. "Tell me more about this creature, this … this … what did you call it?"

"Clown, Sir. It's called a clown," said the representative from Jupiter, shaking its wunkle back and forth and sighing in exasperation.

"Yes, yes. A clown. Of course, of course. I should have remembered that. Tell me something else funny about this clown thing, if you can."

"Well, it's got four legs," said the Martian.

"Four legs has it? Well, I can't see the humor in that. I mean, I thought I made a lot of creatures with four legs. Didn't I?"

"Indeed you did, Sir, and I must say, the four-legged paradigm that You employed was pure inspiration. I can't begin to tell You what a delight it is to see so many creatures walking about on all fours the way they do. So stable, so balanced. But this creature, when it walks," and here the Martian paused again, "only uses two of them."

Once more the room erupted in fits of laughter.

"Well, if it only uses two of its legs, what on earth does it do with the other two?" God asked.

"It plays with its dingley-dangley thing!" screamed the Martian.

And all the representatives doubled or – in the case of the Neptunian – tripled over with laughter, slapping their gazotskies and laughing their asses off.

And, when He was done with the laughing and had finished sticking everybody's ass back on, God raised His hands high in the air and shouted, "Hallelujah! Hallelujah! I believe we have found the answer to My prayers."

And so it came to pass that God seeded the firmament that was His Earth with clowns He had borrowed from Mars. And the other creatures of the Earth, upon seeing the new creature walking around with its funny looking little dingley-dangley thing, began to snicker. And the snickering begat giggling. And the giggling begat chuckling. And the chuckling begat laughter. And, lo and behold, soon the whole of the Earth was filled with merriment.

And God looked down upon what He had created and said that it was good.

Then Mrs. God walked into the room and took a peek at what was happening on Earth. As was her wont in such matters, she made some snide comments about how the new clown creature was messing up Her beautiful gardens by leaving its dirty underwear lying around all over the place. However, She knew just the creature that could teach it to pick up after itself – and to quit writing its name in the snow every time it peed.

But that's a story for another time.

"The Clowns of God"

Copyright: © 2010 Michael Pelc

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