Excerpt from Stop Me If You've Heard This One by Kristen Arnett, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Hey," I say, suddenly shy. Sometimes that happens when I meet someone without the added layer of protection provided by my clown ensemble. It's as though all my confidence comes from the greasepaint. "I was hoping I could pick up my stuff."

"Stuff?"

"That I left here." When her expression doesn't change, I continue in a hurry. "An olive‑colored duffel bag with brown leather handles? I stashed it behind the sectional sofa in the living room."

She drinks me in, and there it is, the sudden knowledge that I'm the person who had a magic wand up her pussy. Disappointment clouds her features. "Oh. Hi."

"Hi." I kick at the front mat, which reads welcome, you, and the grammar is so weird and bad it makes me want to turn and leave. "I need my stuff. For work."

"Right." She turns around halfway to see if anyone is behind her in the hall, then leans in close—much closer than expected. Her breath is hot and scented with traces of wintergreen‑flavored gum. "Check the garbage, out back. My husband tossed it. You know ... after."

Looking at her now is a miserable experience. There's disgust in her

eyes, sure, but there's also pity. This woman with her expensive car and her homeowners association and her neat little family of three and her good‑looking mother. It doesn't matter that I did an incredible job entertaining her guests with my clown work (I'd juggled lit candles, for Chrissake, thrown actual fire) and possibly did an even better job fucking her. To this woman, I'm simply a minor inconvenience.

I turn on my heel and walk stiffly around the side of the house, all the way to the back garden with its rosebushes and flowering citrus trees. You're doing this for the audition, I tell myself. You're doing this because you're always willing to get your hands dirty in order to achieve your dreams. Opening the garbage cans produces some of the most un‑ holy, stomach‑churning smells I've ever encountered, odors akin to sour milk and formaldehyde and rancid pork. One of the bags splits open as I shove it aside, unearthing what looks to be the remains of a seafood boil, busted crab legs and shrimp shells and gray, mealy potatoes and gnawed corncobs nestled in a damp newspaper wrapping. At the very bottom of the bin, I finally find it: the faded duffel bag that holds my most treasured possessions.

Crowing with delight, I yank it free, unearthing the remaining Hefty bag, which rolls down onto the freshly mown grass and ejects wadded toilet paper and several used tampon applicators. My bag stinks to high heaven, but it's still the sweetest sight I've ever seen.

I set it on the ground and unzip the top. The relief I feel is palpable; I'm giddy in a way that's nearly post‑orgasmic. I've conquered my cowardice, and I'm reaping the benefits of facing my fears. Here, I think, is my reward.

Everything is there, my creative life stuffed in a single bag: pants and shirts and ties, my miniature accordion, the ventriloquist's dummy I'd named Velma after getting stoned and watching too much Scooby- Doo, bike horns and kazoos and glitter bombs and extra wigs and a bag of red noses and Hacky Sacks for juggling and spare packs of balloons. But I keep digging, suddenly frantic, because I've realized that the most important thing isn't here. My makeup kit is missing. The expensive greasepaint that I'd spent six months saving up for, in order to perfect the visage of Bunko: a clown cowboy whose dream is to compete in the rodeo, but he's never going to make it, is he? Not with that debilitating horse phobia.

And I know exactly where I'll find that missing kit. Marcia, you sneaky bitch, I think, as I march around the side of the house, this time forgoing the doorbell with its goofy college football chime, and instead banging the side of my fist repeatedly against the wood.

Excerpted from Stop Me If You've Heard This One by Kristen Arnett. Copyright © 2025 by Kristen Arnett. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.