I had this French guy who was as greedy as me and who couldn’t wait to stuff me like a proper pig, he saw himself in me, and could not ordering me food
This is another commission, this time from Oreo and featuring Coobah as a fun insert character. There’s at least two characters that will feature looks of Coobah’s, of which I will link to accordingly. You’ll see it!
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“Bro, who’s the clown?”
I turned from the punch bowl to see that one of my friends was gesturing to bay window facing the front of the apartment building, through which we all marveled down upon the polka-dotted bug parked clumsily in front of the entrance, half on the sidewalk, and the colorful figure climbing out of the driver’s seat. From my vantage point at the fridge, where I’d been retrieving the booze, I could make out the top of a comically small, red hat atop a ruffle of black hair. There was a glint of glasses and a flash of a red nose, but it was hard to make out many details from four stories up. The colorful jacket and rainbow-striped pants could have been obvious from miles away, though, not to mention the oversized shoes or the ruffle around his neck.
Everything had paused in my kitchen to regard the spectacle of the strangely colored man, and I could’ve stared out the window for hours, just drinking in the odd sight of him. I was almost disappointed to see a security guard waltzing out from the apartment building to say something about his haphazard parking job, half because I never really felt comfortable with the security boards loitering about the place where I lived, but also because the strange clown would surely soon be sent on his way. Rolling my eyes, wishing the poor dope would be let alone, I traipsed back to the island counter of the kitchen where the rest of my buddies were seated on barstools, still peering over my shoulder to sneak a glance of the sight below.
“Looks like the circus is in town,” I joked with a shrug. “Maybe some kid is having a birthday or something.”
“That reminds me!” Danny, who’d remarked on the clown, gasped as he reshifted his focus to his phone, scrolling through dates in his calendar app. “Wasn’t my girlfriend’s birthday coming up?”
“Dude!” Simon laughed, practically choking on the beer I’d handed him. “That was last week!”
“Shit!” Danny looked up from his phone to offer us all an expression of tragic bewilderment. “Is that why she’d been pissed at me?”
“Probably,” Kent waved his bottle around, as if dismissing the importance of a birthday with the very gesture, “but don’t stress too much about it. Chicks get really strung out about that sort of thing, but it’s never really important, you know?”
“Alright there, pickup artist,” Simon scoffed at our friend’s uncouth opinion with a smarmy grin. “Spend a little too much time on 4chan, have we?”
“Okay, okay, but seriously guys!” Danny, our local scatter-brain, looked around the counter with desperation in his wide-eyes. “I never forget birthdays. I write down everyone’s. How do I make things up to her?”
“You never forget birthdays?” Simon’s smug smile turned to bore fully into Danny, at which his expression of innocent alarm turned to one of guilty shame.
It was no secret that, even despite Danny’s learned obsession with journaling every event he could recall into his digital calendar, things always seemed to fall between the cracks. He’d forget to set a reminder for the event, set it on the wrong day, and those instances were when he didn’t just plum forget to write down the event at all. He was the classic picture of a himbo that way, the hunky sort that liked to live constantly in the moment with little thought for the future. That said, he was the nicest of our bunch, by far. He was the first to volunteer to host our usual weekend movie night, since Simon’s place was still under renovation, but we all agreed that Danny left too much sweaty laundry around his apartment for us to get comfortable. He tried to assure us that it wouldn’t be that dirty, that he’d gotten a hamper since we’d last come over, but as much as that boy hated laundry and loved working out, we all doubted his follow-through.
Conversely, it was almost funny that Simon was such a close friend with the muscle head. Maybe like me, he saw the value in an earnest soul like Danny. He was certainly clever enough for such insights, to be certain. He was the brainiest of the friends at the party, a very “type A” personality that always had everything sorted and scheduled. It was why we most always let him host most every one of our get-togethers, for the trade-off that we all chipped-in from time to time of course, obviously by his suggestion. As I thought about it though, it was probably by good fortune that Danny stuck with Simon as he did, lest the smarty go and organize all fun out of his life, as he was prone to doing with overbearing work schedules, strict cleaning routines, and the nearly robotic fitness program he kept for his lean physique. It was easy to tell, for instance, that his chastising Danny for his ineffective planning was not an uncommon occurrence.
Feeling bad for the poor guy, I decided to step in and say something.
“I think Kent partially had a point,” I offered, choosing my words carefully. “Like, if I had my birthday forgotten, I think I’d just be happy to spend the time with people I cared about. It doesn’t always need to be a big affair, right?”
Danny’s gaze turned to me, a glint of hope dancing in his eyes. I smiled to see that I cheered the big lug up a bit, despite the way Simon now eyed me through his glasses with marked interest. I was beginning to worry that he had become suspicious of my sincerity when Kent spoke up once more, diverting everyone’s attention with a haphazard declaration about how birthdays were all a “capitalistic scam.” I would’ve listened to his point with interest if he hadn’t arrived at the movie night having forgotten his wallet at home, as he always did when it was a night to pay into the party. He also, notoriously, didn’t believe in any pay apps, since they were “just another way for big business to track you.” Besides his interesting rhetoric, most all of us knew that Kent was a sort of sleazy dude, the sort that half-hid behind his veneer as a moralist. Were it not for his generally charismatic personality, we probably would’ve left him off of the invite list a while ago, but as it stood, he was just a good enough time to be around to be worth his headaches.
Luckily, a knock at the door interrupted his long-winded, half-baked lecture, and before anyone could say anything, Simon had the presence of mind to volunteer Kent to answer the pizza man at the door, being closest to the kitchen entrance. Grumbling as he got up, grumbling about “sheeple” under his breath, the lightly beer-bellied faux-insurgent scuffled his way out. As I thought about how obviously his mooched beers were starting to show, Simon collected the DVD’s we’d chosen for the evening and, with niceties commenced with, proceeded out to the living room to set up the showing. Danny, his girlfriend woes forgotten practically as soon as they were mentioned, of course followed his best friend like a shadow.
Meanwhile, I collected the rest of the beers from the fridge, trying to parse out the best way to get them to the living room for easy access. With several in each hand, the crooks of my arms helping in the task, I took a quick peek out the bay window once more, curiosity seizing my focus for a mere moment. I was both pleased and bothered to see that the polka-dotted car was still occupying a good chunk of the sidewalk, hoping that the entertainer was left alone, though I was a bit puzzled as to what the clown was now doing in a uniform. Gazing out at him for a moment longer, I wondered if this clown wasn’t, perhaps, a friend of the first, with more of an officer shtick to his performance, but I was interrupted from such considerations by loud, trundling footsteps clamoring into the kitchen behind me. It sounded like Kent was back with the pizza.
Spinning around with the beers in hand, I started, “Just put them on the count-”
And then I froze as my eyes fell on the clown in my kitchen.
Standing at the far side of the kitchen island was a man in a giant polka-dotted ruff above a simple t-shirt, comically remarked with “Born to Clown” across the front. It looked like a lax fit for a clown, more toonish than presentational, and the enormous gut on the man stretched right out from under it. Only his silly white suspenders kept his surprisingly oversized pants up, the white polka-dots on blue material pooling around his legs, even despite his large belly. His hair was plain and his red nose hung limply from his face. To cement the lack-luster presentation of the bozo, all his clothes were smudged with stains, and even his makeup was haphazard, dotted with painted on tears and an artificial five o’ clock shadow. I wasn’t certain whether or not it was intended for comic effect, but looking at the clown rendered only one thought in my mind: pathetic.
He stumbled up to me, an unaccounted for crinkling emanating from somewhere on his person. He smelled awful, with the acrid scent of someone who’d just woke up from sleeping in the streets. His breath should’ve come with an octane warning, as the smell of booze wafted heavily from his open mouth as he opened it to say something.
“Thanks, buddy,” came the slurring words as he reached for one of the beers in the crook in my arm. “Happy birthday, by the way. Great party!”
Unsure of what to do, I let the strange man take his beer, watching wide-eyed as he popped the cap by knocking it against the counter, causing the golden liquid to fizz everywhere before his greedy lips latched onto the top of the bottle. He moaned like a lover drunkenly making out with his beloved, pathetically tonguing the inside of the as what remained within it was thirstily chugged down. Trying to broach the topic of the clown in my kitchen, I said the first thing that came to mind.
“So are you the pizza guy?” I asked, trying not to sound as bewildered as I felt.
“Nah, he’s out there in the living room with Coobah,” the clown gasped between desperate chugs of the beer, quickly followed by a belch. “You should meet Coobah too.”
“Sure,” I returned, setting the rest of the beers near the drunken clown the same way a camper might ditch a backpack of food if a wild bear was by their tent, “but who are you?”
“Ha, good one buddy!” the clown boozily guffawed, smiling endearingly at me. “I may be the clown, but you always have been funnier than me. I’m sorry I’ve never really acknowledged that before.
“Hell,” the bozo interrupted himself, slurring with a clumsy flourish of his bottle, “I’m sorry I’ve been generally taking advantage of you, not paying for the movie nights and pretending I was so socially aware. I’ve never even read Karl Marx!”
I paused as I considered the clown’s odd apologies and admissions.
“Kent?” I asked, peering closely at the clown’s painted face.
(Kent’s look here)
The clown’s belly was bigger than Kent’s, certainly, but baring the makeup and bizarre wardrobe change, I could just make out a bit of a semblance between the pathetic figure before me and the annoying friend this clown was supposed to be. It was more appropriate to say that the man before me looked like a version of Kent that was, yes, a clown, but also harder lived, like a life of mooching and bumming off of others had finally caught up to him. Before, being unpalatable, I found myself a bit disgusted to have this man in my apartment. Looking at me with a drunken glaze over his eyes, his lips fixed in pathetic pout, I gasped at the uncanny likeness.
“That’s right, man,” Kent moaned, almost more to himself than for my sake. “‘Kent, get yourself together.’ ‘Kent, give a damn.’ ‘Kent, slow down on the drinking.’ ‘Kent, stop pissing yourself.’”
Kent shrugged pathetically, shirking his suspenders and inadvertently pantsing himself. I gasped once more as I saw that beneath his pants were what I first thought were an enormous pair of underwear in a bright blue plaid design. Given half a moment longer to realize what I was looking at, however, I realized that I was staring at my friend in an enormous diaper cover, a huge pair of soaked diapers underneath. I gagged as I understood what the foul street smell was, hearing the unseemly sound of a concentrated stream of liquid striking the inside of saturated plastic as Kent further relieved his booze-filled bladder into the infantile protection.
“Never learned the difference between ‘Kent’ and ‘can’t,’ I suppose!” Kent slurred with a hiccup, as if that excused him from openly pissing himself in front of me.
I was about to ask him any number of things, like what he was talking about, why he was dressed as a clown, or how he’d changed so much in a trip to the front door and back, but I heard a struggle coming from the next room. Kent, meanwhile, was distracted from taking it upon himself to clean up the mess he’d made of spilling his beer earlier, hoisted himself down onto hands and knees to greedily slurp up the puddle of beer. Snorting and pathetically continuing to moan between needy laps of the inebriating beverage, I left the drunkard to fend for himself, dashing for the living room on the other side of the kitchen and entering a scene of chaos.
To start, there were at least two more clowns than I expected in the room, and one was obviously the pizza man. Clad in a greasy red uniform, face painted with pimples and peach fuzz, the scrawny young man stood as quite the caricature. Then there were my three friends. The living room I knew had warped around them, resulting in a cartoonish environment that suited a children’s television show better than my apartment, with bright colors and furnishings moving like animated characters. In this way, Danny and Simon were each imperiled in a different comical situation.
Meanwhile, Danny was preoccupied with the barbell set. It’d only taken me mentioning a slight envy for my friend’s physique several years ago for Danny to jump on apprehending me a weight set and a fitness routine, offering to work out with me any time. I’d thanked him for the gift but largely left the set unused in the living room, unnoticed by my largely inattentive hunk of a friend. Now I’m the same weight set, an absurdly weighted barbell was being held up by a straining Danny, lying on the bench, as the weights labeled “shit-ton” laughed oafishly as the bar cartoonishly sagged as if it were made of rubber.
Lastly, Simon was merely suspended by some stretched underpants, pulled beyond the length your average pair of tighty-whities could handle, but I knew from a few failed gym visits with the present company that Simon always preferred boxer briefs instead. It was odd to consider that whatever strange effect was changing my living room into a cartoon funhouse was also affecting Simon’s underwear, turning them into tight and white briefs with his name and the day of the week being liberally stretched out on the waistband, but that surreal sense was largely born of the notion that I had to rationally consider the bizarre display before. I felt as though my mind were melting.
“Well, hello there, birthday boy!”
And then there was the other clown.
“Hello, birthday boy!” the room echoed, my friends being the only ones too preoccupied to join my suddenly talking furniture in the chorus.
The clown was the first to greet me upon entering the room, and I found myself startled to have his intense gaze fall upon me. I wasn’t prepared to see the same clown from before in my own apartment. It felt like the man that’d been outside my window might as well have been part of a different world, but now I saw the details of the feathers on his small red cap, the bright red nose, and the twinkling in his eye. Previously, he’d obviously been interested in keeping Simon aloft, as it was his puffy, white gloved hand that was dangling the bespectacled man from his underpants like a human yoyo. Now, despite continuing to suspend Simon above the floor, his manic eyes were fixed on me, and I got the sense that seeing me made this strange bozo’s day.
“How did you know it was my birthday?” was the only thing I could think to say.
“Why, because I’m Coobah the Birthday Clown, of course!” Coobah responded, of course, as if that was one of the most reasonable things to be told.
(Coobah’s look here)
And what was strange is that I sort of bought it. I still recognized that there was something odd about the situation, but it felt sort of like when there’s someone yelling on the bus you’re on. They’ll be saying whatever sort of nonsense, but usually everyone will just ignore it around you, and then you’ll ignore it too. The yelling is unusual, loud, and maybe even disruptive, but it doesn’t alarm you like it did when the yelling first started. Thus, there was something that just didn’t bother me as much about the clown knowing it was my birthday, or that the clown was even in my apartment for my birthday. It was a bit unusual, off-color, and disruptive, but it wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen to a guy on his birthday.
The only thing that sort of jarred me from the sense of complacency I found myself in was when Simon shouted to me, suspended by his transformed tighty-whities.
“Pull it together, man!” he addressed me between the whimpers caused by each rhythmic tug of his underpants. “He did this to the pizza guy and Kent. You have to sort out the facts in your head, dude. It’s not even your birthday!”
“That’s where you’re wrong, bucko!” Coobah declared in mocking sing-song. “It was birthday boy’s special day, all day long, and all of his closest friends weren’t going to do nothing about it!”
“Wrong!” Simon growled at the clown holding him off the ground, but his voice didn’t sound completely certain.
He turned to me with a glimmer of doubt in his bespectacled eyes. He obviously remembered the conversation from earlier, how I’d shared so candidly about how I’d feel if my birthday was forgotten.
“He’s wrong, isn’t he?” he asked, the whimpers from his rear-tugging returning. “I never forget birthdays.”
I bit my bottom lip before shaking my head. Simon looked crestfallen. Coobah seemed as wildly amused as before. Danny was too preoccupied to give any real response. The pizza clown continued to sit on my chuckling sofa, continuing to smile as he seemed spaced out of his gourd. There was a cruel irony to the dramatic admission of my birthday being forgotten only being noticed by less than half of the room.
“I was surprised you forgot too,” I said, in answer to Simon’s protestations, “but like I said, I’m just happy to be around my friends-”
“And shouldn’t they be happy too?” Coobah interjected, his manic eyes bearing down on me once more.
It was like a trance came over me as I was submitted to the heady beams of the clown’s vision, two spotlights warming me over to his way of thinking. Someone was screaming on the bus of mind, saying that my friends should be free to feel however they want, but that urgent shouting sort of faded from notice as I came to agree that I would very much like my friends to be happy. That’s why I hadn’t told them about my birthday after all, I think. I nodded at the clown’s pointed question, a relaxed smile drawing over my temporarily slackened features.
“No-”
Simon had attempted to make another ruckus, but the hand that wasn’t holding him aloft by his underwear now clapped over his mouth, the thick poofy glove muffling the sound as good as industrial sound-proofing.
“Now, now,” Coobah tutted, the clown’s intense focus once again on the subject in his clutches, “let’s not bother the birthday boy any more, four eyes. Shouldn’t you be much more focused on brushing up for clown school like a hood little nerd?”
It was like watching a prey animal encounter its predator, the way Simon’s eyes bugged out in alarm and then became fixed upon the clown. The muffled shouting tapered off, and the flailing struggle that he’d been making in mid-air slowly ceased. I could tell that the shouting on his bus was getting quieter too.
A strange physical change began to overtake Simon as well, beyond the way his struggling ceased and he’d begun to regard the clown. His smart chinos began to look loose, baggy on his legs, now limp in his entrancement. His sharp belt was there one moment and gone the next, replaced by some unfashionably wide suspenders. His sleek glasses grew fat, wide, and unappealingly thick.
“I know dweebs like you get so caught up in life that you forget the important things,” Coobah cooed in impromptu lecture. “Rather, you think your own schedule is more important than other people in your life.”
I could tell that a flicker of Simon wanted to reject this harsh criticism. His head, starting in a mindless nod, faltered mid-fall as his heavy glasses slid across the bridge of his nose. His gaping gaze began to strain, as if trying to avert his eyes from the clown, reject the bozo’s presence in whatever way he could. I imagine it bothered Simon greatly to consider that he’s forgotten much of anything, let alone his friend’s birthday, his pride serving as a potent antidote to the clown’s strange powers.
“But by your own admission, you’d never forget a birthday, would you?” Coobah continued, unbothered. “That’s because birthday clowns love a good birthday party, isn’t that right?”
Simon, previously straining against placid agreement to the clown’s statements, now began to visibly relax before nodding. It made sense to me, after all. Simon was very organized, and it seemed unlikely he’d forget my birthday, despite evidence to the contrary. He was quite like a birthday clown in that way, nevermind how specific.
His nose seemed to agree, as from under Coobah’s muting hand grew a large red clown nose disguising Simon’s handsome schnoz. His face seemed to be growing pale until I realized that my friend’s face was becoming layered in a coating of clown white. His dangling hands were suddenly fitted with puffy white gloves, and his enviably polished shoes became thicker, clunkier, and comically oversized.
“A nerd like you, surely you’ve been boning up all week for a chance to put your clown-schooling to use for your best friends party.”
Simon was now nodding emphatically, with the same manic glee of the clown holding him up. His handsomely tucked polo shirt was now a polka-dotted button-up, tucked so severely as to see the waistband of his underpants above his loose pants. His well-groomed hair became uncouthly shellacked from front to back. A massive, toony bowtie became affixed around his neck. The cool, suave smarty that I’d admired was gone, a nerdy clown parody in his place.
“Well,” Coobah chuckled, removing his hand from Simon’s red-painted smile, “don’t you have something you’d like to say to the birthday boy?”
“Happy birthday!” Simon loudly lisped, his voice now a nerdy mockery of its former refinement.
“Good lil’ dweeb,” Coobah praised.
Suddenly releasing his quarry, I watched with a blithe smile as Simon fell on his ass. Instead of the expected thud, however, there came a soft, cushioned, crinkling sound. The nerdy clown’s suspenders clips popped loose from the impact, leaving his pants to fall loose around his kiester. His comically labeled underpants were left exposed for all to see, but underneath the new nerd’s tighty-whities was the unmistakable bulk of a diaper.
Simon seemed surprised by this addition to his outfit as well, looking at the sizable mass at his groin, so large that it expanded out to his thighs and looked to keep them from being able to even close. Prodding the padded underpants, holding firm despite being well stretched from the diaper’s bulk and his previous transformative wedgie, his expression of momentary surprise and curiosity faded into his previous blissful smile as a familiar wet hissing could be heard from the region of his crotch.
“Diapered nerds like this one,” Coobah addressed me with a poignant thumb jabbed in Simon’s direction, “never have time for the restroom with their tight schedules.”
I nodded, and that seemed truthful enough.
“Or is it because they were never potty-trained,” Coobah thoughtfully tapped his chin with a big poofy thumb as he thought aloud, “and that’s why poindexter over here is a huge nerd?”
I nodded again. That was also possibly the honest truth.
“Or maybe it’s a special birthday suit for the birthday party for the birthday clown!” he chaotically rambled on with a shrug. “Or maybe I just think diapers are funny. You’ll agree regardless, won’tcha?”
I nodded on. The clown had a lot of great points, I thought over the exponential proliferation of shouting in my head. This was shaping up to be a great birthday. Curious what the birthday clown would come up with next, I watched him toddle past the pizza clown, now rubbing his greasy gloved hand at the slick padding between his legs, and towards Danny. Whether by the clown’s strange powers or his simple preoccupation with the barbell looming over him, Danny had remained silent throughout Simon’s transformation. With a blithe smile, laying eyes on him along with Coobah, I saw now that the hunk’s face was turning a light shade of blue as he continued to push up against the weights, his arms starting to fail.
“Hey,” Coobah playfully chided the weights, the toonish face the barbell now possessed regarding the clown reverently. “No ruining the party, now.”
“You got it, boss!” the weights cartoonishly cackled.
Somehow, that made the difference for Danny, who now seemed to be catching his breath a bit easier, despite still holding the heavy bear above himself. Panting, Danny eyed the room with concern. He was obviously as alarmed by the change in my apartment as I previously was, but being absurdly fatigued, he had little ability to do anything beyond taking it all in. Meanwhile, the clown standing beside him gestured to Danny like a television game show hostess.
“What do you think, birthday boy?” Coobah asked. “What should my next trick be?”
With the same joyfully aloof smile that seemed fairly standard for my face since the clown’s arrival, I gave a thoughtless shrug. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. Things were becoming harder to track the more I listened to the strange clown. What I’d previously taken for granted, he had been tuning me to ignore, but he seemed to find that conundrum funny, if his devious chuckles were anything to go by.
“Alright, then why don’t you give me a hint?” the clown said, bending over to inspect Danny like a car for purchase. “He looks like the jock type, for certain.”
I nodded my head in agreement.
“Yep,” I limply added.
Coobah squeezed Danny’s extended biceps.
“Oh, and these are nice!”
Giving them a firmer squeeze, Danny’s muscular arm honked like a cartoon horn. The entire room snickered at the gag, and despite not knowing how it worked myself, I chuckled at the joke myself. Danny, however, seemed quite alarmed at his arm’s newfound ability to honk, eyes going wide, and spoke despite the strain in his voice.
“M- Man,” he sputtered. “W- What the fuck?”
“Well,” Coobah scoffed with a smile, “if that’s the language you’re going to use, I think it’s high time we take those language skills away, don’t you?”
Then, with a puffy gloved hand, elegantly gestured to show that nothing was in it, Coobah reached up to Danny’s ear and began to tug at something stuck just within it. We were all flabbergasted, Danny included, when the clown began to pull a long pink balloon from the oral orifice. Danny’s face was awash with horror and shock.
“W- Wait!” he urgently wheezed, seeming to understand something I hadn’t yet. “Put that back!”
The clown ignored him completely though, and the longer he pulled on this lengthy balloon, the more Danny’s eyes began to dim. His firm protestations turned to garbled moans and mutterings. He stopped closing his mouth all the way between enunciations, and his tongue began to loll out like that of a dog’s. Once the entirety of the balloon was extracted, Coobah made quick work of the rubbery item, folding and bending it into a shape that only he knew the end of, but once he was done, it was absurdly obvious what the clown’s clever trick was.
“Ta da!” Coobah cried, holding out a pink balloon brain for the rest of us to see.
It was an amazing party trick. We all applauded, Simon excitedly bouncing in his squishing diaper and the pizza boy clumsily clapping his greasy, puffed up mitts together. Granted, Danny was left drooling on the weight bench, since it was his brain that was taken out for the trick after all, but I did hear a drunken belch from the kitchen, which I took to mean the party trick was a majority success.
“Now let’s see,” Coobah looked over the inflated brain thoughtfully.
Looking closer, I saw that there was small wording written all over the balloon, things like “workout regimine,” “best local gyms,” and “secret crush on Simon.” I was a bit surprised to see that these were all the thoughts, memories, and ideas that made up the mind of my friend, and I was even more shocked to learn of Danny’s secret upon my first cursory read of the object. I was curious to see if Simon himself had spotted the same text, but I smiled to see that he was too busy humping into his soaked padding to pay too much attention to the smaller details of Coobah’s amazing act.
“Ah ha!” the clown holding the brain exclaimed, pointing to a specific spot. “There you are, you little dickens!”
I saw now that he was indicating a not unsizable portion of Danny’s mind that was labeled in the large title of “Words, Letters, and Junk.” Never the most literate guy, it made sense that it had to take up so much of his brain and that it was so poorly labeled, and I briefly wondered how much work the jock must do to keep it maintained. I briefly imagined, looking at Danny’s drooling mug, that he must put a lot of work into trying to sound smart for his secret crush, and a part of me felt a respect for the imagined effort. This seemed to be more thought than Coobah cared to put into the topic, however, as he licked his thumb with a dramatic flair and got straight to work rubbing out the bold labeling.
“He’ll be more mime than clown now,” Coobah thought aloud as he continued to erase away a man’s ability to speak as simply as one removes an ugly stain. “At least he’ll likely laugh more though, when I’m done with him.
“Appropriate for the party, eh birthday boy?” The clown now addressed me directly, with me already nodding mid-sentence. “We want your friends nice and happy for the party, and I know just what’d make this dumb jock more happy: way less thoughts in this airhead of his.”
And so Coobah set about rubbing out a variety of thoughts, from “Basic Maths” to “What Gravity Is,” only leaving concepts about muscles, lifting, and working out intact. It was only at the notion I’d spotted that Coobah gave pause. Glancing to the clownish dweeb he’d left on the floor, he looked at me, and then pointed down at the squishily bouncing nerd.
“This one is Simon?” he asked with an air of devious mystery, his smile growing vague.
I nodded, again, dumbly adding, “They’re best friends.”
“Are they now?” Coobah purred, plucking a marker seemingly from thin air. “Well, it seems like I could afford to make a little love connection tonight.”
At once, the clown began filling my friend’s head with filth, the black marker staining a thick lettering deeper than the light lettering from before. The writing was bigger, more dominant than any of the original, remaining thoughts, and I was certain these were the words that would dominate Danny’s mind from here on out. “Simon is my boss.” “I love bullying little nerds.” “I’m a big, strong, clown bully.” “I’m the strong man of any circus.” “Wedgies are my love language.” “I love how stupid I am.” “I love anyone who’s smarter than me.” “I love being made to feel like the big dummy I am.” “Flex.”
By the time Coobah was done, there was more black than pink left on the balloon, and for extra good measure, after unfolding the balloon back into its elongated state, the clown let loose all the air in the balloon. A flurry of sound came out with the air, some I didn’t recognize personally, like children laughing or the firm voices of authoritative parents, but by the time I heard my voice, the voices of my friends, and the familiar clanking of gym equipment, I realized all of Danny’s old memories were being let loose into the air, now impossible to retrieve. Then, with the balloon fully limp, the birthday clown returned his attention to the drooling man on the weight bench, stuffing the deflated balloon back into his ear until only the rubbery opening remained. Pinching the exposed end of the balloon, Coobah produced an old squeeze horn the same way he’d done with the marker, and holding the horn to the balloon, gave the black bulb a pump with his gloved grasp.
Honk!
Danny’s head suddenly seemed to grow wider. His eyes bulged a tad. His forehead now seemed the slightest bit broader, more neanderthalic. His mouth, still open and drooling, now tugged into a shadow of a smile.
Honk!
The horn was squeezed again, and his head expanded further.
Honk! Honk! Honk!
Squeeze by squeeze, Danny’s head expanded into that of a giant, dumb airhead. His old memories that informed who was were now gone, replaced with the boisterous sound of a clown horn, echoing around in his near-empty head. While this was all speculation on my part, it was easy to assume with Danny’s smile growing increasingly oafish with manic glee. An enormous, red clown nose began to sprout from his gigantic head. His grin was painted with a happy yellow, the rest of his face a familiar clown-white. Already, the hands still holding up the chuckling barbell were gloved with puffy white additions. His usual running shoes were now a bright red and doubled in size. Danny’s near ubiquitous gym attire was forsaken red-striped leotard that barely constrained his now comically massive muscles, the varsity jacket over it faring little better. All at once, I laughed absent-mindedly as I vaguely realized my friend had become part clown, part strong man, and part jock-bully, which was a clash of stereotypical roles as appropriate to Danny as it was satirical of the man.
Then, discarding the horn into the aether, Coobah released the balloon with a loud snap, the lip flying into my friend’s ear. A mighty, flatulent ruckus sounded from Danny’s head, the familiar noise of a balloon rapidly deflating, as his head deflated to a near human size. The difference, however, was that the caveman proportions remained on my friend’s familiar face. His handsome, rugged looks were now affected by a large primal forehead, a dopily heavy brow, and a jawline that gave his clownish smile a rather obvious, simian underbite.
“There we are, dope!” Coobah happily exclaimed, obviously pleased with the fruits of his labor. “Now, don’t you have something to say to the birthday boy?”
I turned to Danny expectantly, but he merely looked back to me with complete obliviousness. He still held the barbell aloft, despite rising into a sitting position, but seemed to experience no further difficulty lifting the massively burdensome weights. Adjusting to hold them with only one arm, he even hefted them up and down a little. I was surprised to hear a rattling sound as he did so, until I realized that at some point during his transformation, the barbell’s cackling had stopped. Now, instead, the former centerpiece of my weight set was now an enormous double-sided baby’s rattle, complete with monkey and banana patterning around the clattering bulbs.
“Oo oo ook,” Danny grunted at me like an ape as he used the pinky of his free hand to pick his nose.
“Ah, well,” Coobah chuckled. “That’s likely the best we’ll get out of him now, but perhaps he can do a trick for us?”
The dominant clown snapped his fingers, and at once Danny stood up from the weight bench, carelessly leaving the massive rattle to clank down onto the weight bench behind him. Appearnelty, the rattle still weighed the same impossible amount that had previously weighed Danny down, and it was merely his new neanderthalic strength that gave him the ability to hoist it with such ease, as when the rattle did come crashing down, it cracked through the foremost wooden floor like styrofoam and bent the bench in half like putty. Despite the horror of hearing the now-animant benches cries of distress, I couldn’t help but laugh at the madness of the scene.
“Careful, monkey-man!” Coobah chided with a smile. “Why don’t you help celebrate the birthday boy’s special day with your special act?”
The first clown of the party pointed to Simon with a devious grin.
“Bully the nerd, dumb ape!” he commanded with glee.
At once, both Simon and Danny seemed to gain a deeper understanding of what was meant to happen next, Coobah’s powers obviously affecting them both to change their sense of reality. Simon responded with nasally, lipsing whimpers pleading the dominant clown to resend his command and, when that didn’t prompt any response, for Danny to take it easy. Danny seemed to disregard the please as well, though, and stomping forward in his massive fitness shoes, I became aware of the massive bulge at the groin of the muscle-man’s leotard, which I at once recognized as Coobah’s grand motif for the evening: a gigantic diaper.
Prominently pressing the crinkling protrusion forward, as if guided by the throbbing mass, Danny eventually clomped his way to wear Simon cowered on hands and knees. He begged further, but I began to notice a guilty edge of pleasure in his voice, as if facing the oncoming performance with the slightest bit of excitement alongside anxiety. Unfortunately, or perhaps purposefully, the bowing position Simon took to plead with Danny felt the back of his underpants entirely exposed, which the clownish strong-man took advantage of by seizing up the waistband in one strong hand and yanking the clown-nerd upwards.
“Yipe!” Simon half cried out, half moaned.
In symmetry with his progenitor’s former performance, the towering ape-clown bounced the nerd upwards and downwards by his underpants, giving Simon a massive wedgie even through his soaked diapers and causing the subsequently wrung out padding to begin dribbling on the floor. Then, spinning the nerd around so as to face his backside, Danny comically continued the performance by thrusting his own tenting diaper-bulge through his thin leotard and into the nerd’s own pampered bottom at his every airborn downswing. Each hump sent the nerd rocketing higher into the air, causing the muscular dullard to struggle with his rhythm, even as Simon tried to desperately instruct him like some sort of failed dom-bottom in the bedroom.
It was a hilarious sight. The pizza clown laughed raucously from the couch as he continued to hump into his oily palms. Kent had joined the party from his spot drunkenly slumped up against the kitchen doorway, chuckling even as he was drenched in spilled booze and, presumably, his own piss. In the strange air of the moment, with my mind altered by the birthday clown’s strange powers, even I laughed at the abject humiliation of my friends before me. Boy, what a great birthday it was at that moment. “Look how happy everyone is.”
I looked beside myself and realized Coobah was there, his intense gaze upon me once more.
“Shouldn’t the birthday boy be at least as happy as his friends on his special day?” he asked, his joyous tone drowning out any notion of warning I felt in that moment.
I nodded. Of course I nodded. I couldn’t disagree with Coobah, not at this point. It’d been an amazing party under his care, and I was loathed to stop the fun now. Thus, when he presented me with a special present, I found that I simply couldn’t refuse.
“Here we are,” the birthday clown cheerfully announced, setting a strangely shaped baby-rattle into my outstretched hands. “For the special boy.”
The show ongoing before me, despite growing louder in moans of pleasure, went unnoticed by me as my eyes fixated on the unusual rattle in my hands. The clattering bulb at the far end was decorated in clowns and circus motifs that made my lips spread into a smile. It was wrapped with only a pretty birthday ribbon around the handle, just above an overt switch on one side. I turned the item on only to be mesmerized by the sound of the rattle vibrating at high speeds. The noise seemed to empty all other thoughts from my head, drool pouring from my gaping grin as my tongue lolled out with my every thoughtless moan.
Suddenly, I felt more free, liberated both in the mind and in clothing, as I found myself standing nude in the strange new version of my living room. The only thing that prevented my privates making contact with the prying eyes of dozens of now-animant furnishings was a thick diaper, the likes of which I’d seen appear on all of my friends over the course of the evening. Refocusing my gaze on Coobah’s own, bearing down on me in manic glee, I recognized that I too was being submitted to his queer power.
I recognized it and let it happen.
“Let me help you, birthday boy” he heavily breathed, taking my hands in his own puffy mitts.
Helping me to position the vibrating rattle downward, the looming clown pressed his own pants, his own now-obvious diaper bulge, against my own with the rattle sandwiched between us. I gasped as the vibrations melted what little of my mind the rattling-buzzing had not. The clown’s vivid grin grew wider as he freed one gloved hand from the rattle to firmly grasp my padded behind. I moaned at the touch, electric, prompting me to give a single, desperate hump into the rattle and his pillowy reception on the other side.
Honk!
The sound from my diapers was mistakable, the same clownish noise that’d caused Danny’s airhead to swell with stupidity, but I was too lost in the cascade of pleasure to care about what the noise might mean for me. The party was just getting started after all, and the shouting on my mental bus had long since been drowned out. The proceeding, bafoonish honks imitating from my padded groin only helped in the symphony of blithe thoughtlessness overwhelming my mind.
Honk! Honk! Honk!
Coobah no longer needed to press my bottom with his pleasurable hand. I was doing this to myself. With each thrust within my soft diapers, I felt my face grow slicker with grease paint. I could already see my rosy red smile and blue-accented peepers in my mind’s eye, while my own natural face became increasingly difficult to picture. My missing clothing became replaced with a polka-dotted onesie matching Coobah’s own outfit, a ruffle adoring my neck the same as his.
Honk! Honk! Honk!
The rattle became difficult to hold in my newly gloved hands, trembling with pleasure, but luckily Coobah was there to steady my grasp. My toes scrunched up within the massive crochet baby shoes on my feet as I began to breathe heavily through the enormous red bulb adhered over my nose. The phrase “Birthday Boy” appeared in bright lettering across the chest of my onesie, a cake humorously printed on my rump as I moaned out loud enough to draw attention from Danny and Simon’s own clown act.
“Jeepers!” Simon nerdily lisped, collecting his breath between moans. “The birthday boy has the best act of the night!”
Danny grunted in primal agreement, eyeing the printed cake on my rear lustily.
“Best I’ve seen all night,” the pizza clown shlubbily commented with his same spacey smile, his groping hand betraying the critique.
Kent seemed to try to voice his agreement, but instead hiccuped and tumbled to the floor.
“I think it’s time for the birthday boy to join the circus with the rest of us,” Coobah announced with a dominant smile.
Honk! Honk! Honk!
The feeling at the front of my diaper was ecstatic, demanding attention. My eyes once more set upon all the smiling friends around me, debasing themselves in the most hilarious of ways, and let out a cartoonishly exuberant laugh. I was overjoyed to see them fester in their newfound parodies, taking the utmost pleasure in their adopting the truest and funniest versions of themselves. As I humped the front of the fresh onesie once more into my new vibrating toy, my last coherent thought before losing myself into my own blissful, depraved pleasure was on how grateful I was:
Boy, what better friends could a birthday clown ask for?
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