Fall brings cool weather, falling leaves in spectacular hues, and the Spooky Season.
Much like Christmas this holiday beckons to me all year long. I look forward to it from the time it's over until it rolls around the next year. October gives me a "legitimate" reason to dress up in outlandish costumes, pretend to be someone else, and make attempts to be scary or silly or tricky. Also, candy corn: best vegetable ever.
As with Christmas, it's just lame if the merriment isn't tempered by a break from the decorations, music, traditions, and general shenanigans. (Take the damned icicle lights off your trailer for a few days Bubba. Give everyone a chance to look forward to their return. We all know they ain't frozen in the deep South anyways, dumbass.) Enjoying the drudgery of non-holidays only makes the festivities more... festive.
Besides, when I don't set aside the pranks and act like a well adjusted adult for a few months even the most patient friend will avoid me. Or throw a punch.
When a cohort showed me what she did to torture her teenage daughter the lure of sweet revenge demanded I follow suit. Teenagers are past the stage where you can harm their precious little developing brains with fear, shock, or seemingly unloving actions. It's also fun to mess with them.
The need to make my kids pee themselves beckoned. The willingness to pay $40 for a laugh did not, so I borrowed it.
Problem with borrowing a near life size clown is that it has to be returned. Because of my firm belief that no gag should go unused (and my general unease about stuffing any sort of body into the trunk) it was hastily strapped into the passenger seat. Before the car was in drive adjustments needed to be made.
His creepy ass had to ride in the back seat.
Sure, a few people honked and waved. There are nutjobs out there who are amused and not at all startled when a grown woman drives a clown around town. Although there are some concerned citizens on the streets who are quick to alert the authorities.
It's easy to forget what's in the backseat when you are thinking about getting the dog to the groomer before she tracks the dead smell of something into the kitchen and how nice life would be if you had a maid and whether you can speed through the grocery before your kid gets left on the curb outside the school. One might even forget what's in the backseat until it's time to back out of the line of traffic stopped for what appears to be a DOT worker enjoying the company of an orange safety barrel placed randomly in the only open lane in front of a long lane of traffic on the busiest street in the free world.
(I reverse like a Mother. Ask my people- I drive backwards better than I drive forwardwards.)Then, damn if he didn't catch my eye in the rearview.
My friend would soon be returned her slightly damaged prank clown. The dent in his neck was barely noticeable since my uppercut was seriously impaired by my seatbelt. In the haste of terror my aim was also bad. Real bad.
The joy of spreading madness, fear, and sheer terror to bypassers and my own offspring made it all worthwhile. To me. Not to the clown. He didn't think it was funny at all.
And that is why I hate clowns.