In this day and age of YouTube spoofs and post-ironic parody shows that are far too sophisticated for you and I to understand, the idea of a court jester may seem out-dated and somewhat silly. But isn’t that the whole point of a jester? Basically, I exist so that others feel good about themselves. I can live with that, if they’re willing to pay me.
|Typical, practical jester uniform|
So I applied to become a royal court jester, which is the Grand Prix of jestering. In fact, it’s basically the only establishment since medieval times (including the themed restaurant Medieval Times) that actually employs jesters. I had to attend jester boot camp with seven other foolish hopefuls. We were forced to run through minefields of confetti, test our accuracy with a water-squirting flower, and withstand barrages of custard pies to the face. The course providers had sent us to clown school, since there’s no such thing as jester boot camp. I felt sickened and demeaned by the whole affair.
Once the course was complete, we were given our bell-laden overalls and jester’s stick. My outfit was green and yellow, which I felt complemented my eyes in a way that would become apparent when my pleading face begged for laughter and approval. We were immediately put on a rota to entertain the Queen. My day of reckoning would come the day after next, making me the second person in line to entertain her majesty.
The guy before me, Andrew, was the first person set to entertain her maj. I watched him throughout training and he was simply sublime. His falling technique far surpassed any of the other students on the course, and when he gets chased around a table in a slapstick fashion; his gait and poise are like poetry in motion. I couldn’t allow him to go first and upstage me. How could I follow such an act? Comedy is serious business. I conceived the inconceivable and I resolved to take out the competition.
Taking Andrew out without getting the blame would be difficult. I would have stage an incident that would look like an accident, which would require all of my cunning, treachery and guile. That’s why I ran into his room at midnight and hit him with a hammer.
With my main rival out of the way, I was free to become the greatest jester in the history of jestering. My superiors would have fired me if they didn’t need someone to fill in for Andrew at the last minute, but I knew that my performance would win them round. That was until the guy due to perform after me ran into my room at midnight and hit me with a hammer. If you live by the hammer, you should be prepared for hammer attacks really. Not getting hammer-proof clothing was a mistake on my part, one which has landed me in hospital, sucking nutrition through a tube. At least it’s strawberry flavoured. YUM!