Excerpt: Two Dead Clowns

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NOTE: TWO DEAD CLOWNS is not a one man show. Act 1 is about John Wayne Gacy and Act 2 is about the life of Divine. One actor plays both parts but there are other characters in both plays. The play is not just two long monolgues though it may seem that way from reading the below excerpts. Enjoy!



How did Mojo die? Read the coroners report. He suffocated with underwear in his throat. That’s a fact. I don’t dispute that. But listen to the facts. Mojo comes over, we start messing around but he’s being too loud so what do I do? I hold his underwear over his mouth. Now why do I do that? Because he’s being too loud. I gotta shut him up or the cops’ll be coming by. And I even said that to him I said,”Mojo you want the cops to come by,” and he said, “no”, but he kept getting too loud so I put his underwear over his mouth to muffle him. I wasn’t trying to kill him, I just want him quiet. So what does he do? He opens his mouth too wide and the underwear slips in. He inhaled the fucking underwear and they covered his windpipe and he starts to suffocate but I’m behind him right so I don’t see any of this and my hands still over his mouth but I don’t realize he’s choking to death. And I guess he starts swallowing them or something because next thing I know his body goes limp. So yes he died in my house, I don't dispute that. But then I read in the paper that I “shoved” underwear down his throat. I “shoved” underwear down his throat. How would I even do that. I got big hands. I got big fingers. I got cigar fingers. They wouldn’t even fit in Mojo's mouth. Mojo had a small mouth. But when you read in the paper that I shoved underwear down some poor guys throat well that sounds sick. It makes me sound like a sicko. I’d hate me too if I did something like that but its not what I did. I didn’t “shove” underwear down Mojos' throat. I just wanted him to be quiet. I covered his mouth like a mother in a church trying to keep her daughter quiet during prayer. I didn't want Ben from next door calling the cops on us. I was still on parole from my sodomy conviction. So I tried to keep him quiet. I put them over his mouth and he did the rest, he inhaled them, he swallowed them, he choked himself to death. Now is that premeditated murder or is it suicide? Clearly it’s suicide. But the courts don’t care. Maybe it’s involuntary manslaughter, maybe. I’d plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter, no problem, but not murder. I’m sitting on death row for murder. No way was it murder. And it certainly weren’t premeditated. So why am I charged with premeditated murder? If you want to spend 12 hours I can go through each case one by one and you’ll see that it’s not what you think. You’d see the mitigating circumstances. If you’re interested in the other side of the story, the true side, then we should keep going but if you’re just gonna shine me on and write me off then I’ll shut up right now because I don’t need to waste my breath. Sado-masochism is not murder. It’s sex. Maybe we didn’t do it right but that doesn’t make me a murderer. I’m a friend of Jimmy Carter.
I can’t talk right now. I have a weak heart.

(He sits in silence.)






Last night when I was in the cab coming home. I was sitting there just thinking about all the clubs I’ve performed in and all the movies I’ve made and all the records I’ve sung and all the airports I’ve slept in...and...I just thought about it all and...God, I just...I just feel so old. It’s like...John and I were making those movies back in Baltimore for no money, and no food and it was like... it was exciting...I thought I was Elizabeth Taylor, but prettier and more talented...I miss those times...but...I don’t want ‘em back. You know I love John. I love Johns movies but I have to move on. When all of your success comes from one collaboration I think you start to resent that person, you know. That’s why I loved making Lust in the Dust because it was like wow, another director wants to work with me, thank God! Thank God for Paul Bartel. I finally felt validated. Sometimes I think John keeps putting me in the movies because he feels obligated. I don’t wanna to feel like that. I think he feels that I upstage him sometimes. He’d never say it but...do you think he ever gets tired of talking about me? I know I get tired of talking about me. It’s always the same 3 questions. "Did you really eat dog shit in Pink Flamingos?" "Was it real dog shit?" "What does dog shit taste like?" I don’t wanna talk about dog shit anymore. I don’t want to be an underground artist. I want that TV money. I want that TV fame. I wanna be on the cover of the Enquirer. Do you think it’s shallow to want all that. Well fuck it I guess I’m shallow. I want it. With Hairspray, for the first time, I actually started to feel that people were beginning to take me seriously. Some of the reviews actually referred to me as an actor. Finally! Like what the hell was I doing in all my other movies if I wasn’t acting. Do I sound like a pity party? I just worry that I’m gonna die in some freak car accident or plane crash and then suddenly they’ll be books written about me and documentaries, and plays and I won’t be around to enjoy it. How many movies have I made? 14? 15? 15 fucking movies. Well it would be nice to make just one movie my parents could actually take their friends to. My mother thought Hairspray was so outrageous. Could you imagine if she actually ever saw Pink Flamingos. She’d have a coronary. She knows I ate that dog shit but if she actually saw it, projected on the big screen at the local cineplex, could you imagine? Oh God! She would die. I can’t think of one other actor whose had a career as ridiculous as mine. I should be grateful right? Well I’m not! Do you think when Madonna makes a record she has to jump through hoops to get a fucking royalty check? When Meryl Streep makes a movie do you think she has to beg for a decent dressing room? Do you think Robert Deniro has to drive himself to the studio. That’s all I want. Just send me a driver who knows my name and knows where we’re going. I want to be picked up in a limo that I don’t have to pay for myself. I think people see me as some kind of cuddly clown like Bozo or Clarabel. Just a jolly little fat man with no worries and no needs. I think that’s how people view me. I think people think I eat shit every morning for breakfast. I think they think I wear heels to the supermarket. I don’t know what they think. “Just make us laugh.” “Say something funny.” “Say something dirty.” “Spit food on us.” It’s exhausting...you know...I just...I want so much...I want so much more than I have. I saw Madonna on American Bandstand and Dick Clark goes what do you want with your career and she goes,”I want to rule the world.” And I thought you fucking cunt, that’s what I want!