10.22.09 8 years ago 14 Comments

Over the next week or so, Josh will recap some of his adventures at Blogs With Balls 2.0, the new sports media conference held last weekend in Las Vegas, presented by,,, SB Nation, Sports Illustrated, Diageo Liquors and CarbonPoker. This is one of those anecdotes, including a rundown of how Josh and Brandon hired a clown to drink with them on The Strip on Saturday night.

The Las Vegas experience is limited only by one’s budget and imagination, and what started as a humorous aside in a conversation between friends slowly gained momentum as a viable entertainment option. Wouldn’t it be funny if we got drunk with a clown? Why yes. Yes it would. And so, with three weeks left before our trip to Vegas, Brandon posted a Craigslist ad and the Great Clown Hunt was on.

Lots of people wanted to be our clown, including an enterprising young lady who replied to our ad:

hey fellas! i am a local clown/stripper, ill do you gig for gas money and drinks! for extra cash ill strip too! i make balloon dildos and erotic clown show, bring ping pong balls and you won’t be dissapointed! you can reach me at 702-xxx-xxxx i dont always check my email.

We have to bring our OWN ping-pong balls? That’s poor customer service, missy.

We settled on a guy named Grant Waters, a licensed performer and Upright Citizens Brigade alumnus who operates his own improv school in the city. He recommended O’Sheas as a good place to get our big top on, and the date and time were set.

News of the upcoming Clown Night permeated through the conference. Clown tweets were popping up throughout the day. People were buzzing about it. And before we knew it Saturday night had arrived.

The clown was late. We had settled into a beer pong at O’Sheas–the closest thing to a college bar that you’ll find on The Strip–with an Aussie wearing a Mark Sanchez jersey and a girl who swore to us that her name was Morgan Freeman. But even then, the excitement was palpable. Brandon and I were looking over our shoulders routinely. Where the hell is our clown?

It was my first-ever experience with beer pong, a claim which nobody believed after I sank four straights balls in our second game of six-cup. The Aussie swore I was hustling him. Apparently one can hustle in Australia without money on the line. I asked Morgan if she expected to see any clowns that night.

“I hope not,” she replied. “I hate clowns.”

And then, almost on cue, there he was.

It was majestic. A clown in a bar! Oh, this was such a good idea. We posed for pictures with the clown. Other people posed for pictures with him. It seemed like everyone was enjoying our clown as much as we were. And that’s when the trouble started.

Security showed up at our table, and they weren’t visiting to buy us drinks. They were throwing our clown out of the bar. We talked to our boss and he doesn’t want him in here. We followed our clown, who was now crying on the outside as well as the inside, out the front door. Clown Night seemed to be over before it even began.

I went back inside to plead with security. I had no gripe with them personally; they were just following orders. Can we bring him in if he takes off the wig and makeup? They said sure. It got us off the street long enough to plot our next move, but more importantly, it reunited me with the full pitcher of beer that I’d left on our beer pong table. Brandon, the clown and I killed the pitcher, and headed, at Grant’s suggestion, to the Mirage.

Revolution had go-go dancers and everything was lit up in red. The place would have made a very sexy bomb shelter during the Cold War. We managed to pounce on some seating as people were leaving. Other people loved us. Aircraft salesman sitting next to us loved us. The go-go girls loved us. The people running the bar offered us a table in the club. Clown Night was back on.

We cut Grant loose at 11:30 and thanked him for his time. It was a fun night. But we’ll never really understand why Grant, a licensed Vegas performer who actually recommended O’Sheas to us, was thrown out. I guess Vegas is a pretty fickle bitch. But our ouster led us to even greener pastures. Or redder pastures, anyway. And a $700 bar tab. Suck on that, O’Sheas.

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