I really hate clowns
Our home is going through a semi-major remodel. By “semi-major,” I mean that we’re not tearing down or “popping out” walls or adding rooms, but every room in the house is being touched in one way or another, a couple getting full overhauls. The whole job, we’re told, will take 3-4 months. We’re just a month into the process. And we’re trying to live here somewhat comfortably (with one oversized dog) while all the remodeling is going on. Crazy times.
So here’s what’s been happening: Debbie and I are frantically working ahead of the contractors, cleaning out rooms, packing stuff up for sale or charity, and shuffling furniture about. And we’ve come across some interesting items that I didn’t even know I had.
Yesterday afternoon, Deb opened a box and found two paintings of clowns that hung on my bedroom wall, oh, 45 years ago, when I was a widdle kid.
Clowns scare the shit outta me. Always have. A dear friend of mine unthinkingly hired a clown named Kerplunk for my 40th birthday a few years back. It took them an hour to tear me off the wall, drunk as I was.
I wish I could reproduce those paintings here, but the damn things don’t fit on my scanner. So I’ve done the next best thing — found a couple of freakin’ clown paintings online that I feel are approximately as hideous and terrifying as the clowns we discovered in that box yesterday.
Stop laughing, you sadistic bastards. This isn’t funny.