Clown Planet lore (make it up!)

[Malphystoh]

Four score and seven henks ago... our Clownfathers brought forth on this planet, a new nation, conceived in laughter, and dedicated to the proposition that all Clowns are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great space war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great honk-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their shoes that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave Clowns, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The galaxy will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly henked. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great honking remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of humor -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have honked in vain -- that this nation, under Honk'sie, shall have a new Banana of freedom -- and that government of the Clowns, by the Clowns, for the Clowns, shall not perish from the universe.

Bananablaster the Henkmeister
Clownplanet - Unspecified date and time during the Clown / Mime war.

[Biffthegreat]

An excellent speech Honkrade!

Reminds me of one from one of Giggles' ancestors:

 

"

Now is the winter of our honkcontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of Honk;

And all the clouds that lour'd upon our honk

In the deepest bosom of space belied.

Now are our brows bound with victorious slips;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to squeaking measures.

Grim-slippaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled horn;

And now, instead of mounting stolen janicarts

To fright the souls of fearful baldies,

He capers nimbly in the captain's chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a horn.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling mime;

I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, honkfinish'd, sent before my time

Into this breathing space, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That vulps bark at me as I halt by them;

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a hero,

To entertain these fair well-spoken shifts,

I am determined to prove a villain

And hate the idle habits of these eves.

Pranks have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,

To set my Captain and the HoS

In deadly hate the one against the other:

And if the Condom be as true and just

As I am subtle, false and treacherous,

This day should Captain closely be honk'd up,

About a prophecy, which says that 'CC'

Of Captain's heirs the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here

Captain comes. Ready the skins.

 

Earl Giggles the Third

Edited May 14, 2018 by Biffthegreat

[Malphystoh]

Clown Culture 10/10