Happy Clown Week. BooOoOOO.
I have referenced my long-ago post about clowns on several occasions over the last two-plus years, for various reasons. I know my fiend Stoney agrees with my oft-restated opinion: to me, clowns are neither happy nor funny. They are, in fact, among the most sinister and nightmarish-looking creatures to ever walk the planet. It matters not what kind of clowns they are, or how many pratfalls they perform, how talented they are at making balloon animals, or how goofy they act. They are macabre, suspect beings who seemingly never fail to leave small children caterwauling in abject terror.
Like many birds of a feather, they also have their own cult. Clowns are like the Branch Davidians, only without David Koresh and all the killing and stuff. They are understood by few outsiders, although you’re welcome to join us in the clowning world anytime…
Thanks all the same, but I’ll pass.
Perhaps the creepiest is the curious and bizarre art form of clown eggs. Once you join the “society,” you are entitled to have your visage recorded for posterity — on an egg. Your face is painted on an egg. For rill. Some of them are actually beautiful; not all are skeevy. (But most are.)
And speaking of inexplicably weird, we go from clowns to Basil Marceaux. A brave patriot for sure, but governor material? Not so much. Or cripes, maybe he’d be great — I mean, the political gene pool isn’t too rich with flora and fauna right now, knowmsayin’?
Speaking of clowning around — today is Justin & Jake Overnight day. Play Doh, sidewalk chalk, sand box, trucks, the park, hide and seek, Dairy Queen and a long bath are the orders of the afternoon and evening. Grammie and Grandpa Thriller just might survive it.