“You are the worst clown I have ever met,” Don Quixote said with as much disapproval as he could muster. The clown sniffed.
“And you’re crazy, old man,” he replied, picking at a piece of lint on his blue-and-yellow motley.
The knight-errant brushed the insult off with a wave of his high-plumed hat. “Yes, but I have an excuse. You are a clown. Yet in all our time together, you have never… clowned.”
“If you think I’m going to do something funny just for your amusement, then you’re crazier than I thought.” The clown punctuated the thought with a rude gesture and rolled onto his back.
Quixote sensed the conversation was going nowhere. “What I mean, my friend, is that I must question why you go around dressed as you are when you so desperately want to be taken seriously. Doesn’t that strike you as contrary?”
“Maybe.” The clown scrunched his mouth into a frown. “So what?” He rolled onto his side, his back to the knight. “Shut up about it and go to sleep.”
“Ah, sleep, the great cla-”
“Shut up, old man.”