You armchair psychiatrists might be tempted to conclude that I have low self-esteem. Oak on trare, may zamee! I have huge underground vats of self-esteem, so volumesque that should they release their contents onto the surface of this big blue marble, the level of the oceans would rise .0003 centimeters, causing a smidgeon more of mildew throughout the entire world's basements! THAT's how strong my self-love is, baby! But having, in the fading twilight of my years, come to the reluctant conclusion that sainthood is not to be my claim to fame, I've decided to go the clown route. But not in the John Wayne Gacy direction, THAT WOULD BE WRONG. More like that E. Pagliaci guy, who laughs on the outside and cries on the inside, so you can be entertained by him while feeling sorry for him at the same time. Kind of like having my pie in the face and eating it too.