The plan was very simple, all we had to do was go to the county fair in clown getup, and walk around giving kids the animal shaped balloons we made, do a few magic tricks, and perform a few stupid skits that clowns do. It is funny how some of the most simple times in life turn out to be among the most memorable. We arrived on a hot summer day, but everything started out just fine. A lot of children were running around on the carnival grounds with that dazed and excited look that kids get when they are set loose in kid heaven.

My partner and I worked the crowd like professionals, and the kids were enjoying the show. We noted with some measure of satisfaction that balloon animals occasionally drifted to the ground from atop the rides, as the wind caught them and ripped them out of the mits of the children. When a larger audience gathered around, we would put on a performance for them, making them laugh and applaud the show. As the afternoon wore on, I noticed that every performance we did that day was attended by a young man who was a carnival worker. This guy was a bit on the odd side. He was about twenty-three years old, and had a very distinctive shape to his head. The best way to describe it is to say that the top part of this guys head looked something like a wide loaf of bread. Needless to say that this particular feature made him stand out in the crowd rather distinctly.

As we performed, this guy stood at the back of the crowd, laughing loudly at all our jokes, slapping his knee, and wagging that big noggin from side to side. When the crowd disbursed, Mr. Breadhead would come up to us with questions about our craft, and asking if he could do something to be part of the show. Being professional performers, we thanked him for his compliments, but told him that we were not allowed to let just anyone join our troupe. The man persisted throughout the day, practically begging to get in on a skit with us. We tried not to offend him, but he was so insistent, we listened when he said he had a great idea for a skit. He suggested that it would be a very funny skit to have the clowns act as if they dropped something on the ground, and when they bent over to pick it up, he would appear with a large board, and act like he was whacking us in the behind with the board. He also had just the board he needed, a 2X4 pine plank to pull it off with.

For obvious reasons, I told the guy that such a skit would be very dangerous, and it would be essential that he did not actually strike us with his prop. Mr. Breadhead waved a knowing hand and said he understood absolutely that his role would be to act like he was hitting us, and not actually doing it. To reassure myself that this guy knew what he was doing, I insisted on a practice run before we incorporated the idea into our performance. The guy was absolutely beaming over getting this opportunity. We talked over the skit, and felt we were ready to give it a trial rehearsal.

As planned, I walked over to my appointed spot, did some stage business, and bent over on queue. Before I had any time to anticipate it, the plank hit me on the pelvis like a rock, and I went flying into the air. I came down screaming in pain and running as fast as my legs could carry me. The sound of that board cracking across my backside was like someone had fired a gunshot. My partner saw the entire event, heard the pain, and watched me run out of sight.

Mr. Breadhead motioned with a finger to my partner and said, OK, Your turn!

Amazingly, my partner stepped up, and bent over to take an equally brutal shot. Moments after I regained enough control over the pain to stop running, my partner flew past me with both hands firmly planted on his rear, still howling with pain. When we recovered our senses, we went looking for Mr. Breadhead, but he had completely disappeared. The burning question for me was why my partner had so willingly stepped into harms way after seeing full well what had happened to me.

My friend replied, Well, I saw him hit you and you took off running, but I just wasnt sure you werent faking it somehow. With that explanation, I just let it alone. I learned several valuable lessons that day. First, we would never again allow any kind of audience participation in our stunts, and most importantly, NEVER trust a man with a bread-shaped head.