Last Friday B and I went to a neighborhood bar to catch a few sets from a local band we really enjoy. Even though it's only about a block away from our doorstep, we don't go inside this bar very often. The reason? The entire place is decorated with clowns. CLOWNS.
From the outside, this bar looks like a quaint little Irish pub. And from the inside it does too ... until your eyes adjust to the low lighting and you realize that that's actually a clown marionette with the scariest face you've ever seen in your entire life hanging on the wall behind your head next to the Irish hurling stick. So close it's almost touching you. And I think it's breathing.
And then you take a step back and realize that the whole fooking place is dripping with clowns. The wall behind the band is some sort of circus on acid scene. And come to mention it that clown ringleader looks suspiciously like Steve Martin. The glass case behind your head is packed to the brim with more clown dolls than you've ever seen in your life. Besides the few photos of Irish doors and street signs, the pictures on the wall are clowns. CLOWNS. Clowns. Everywhere.
Maybe I can understand the use of clown-themed things at a little kid's birthday party. Because little kids are creepy. But what kind of adult decorates his entire bar with clowns? The kind who slips a roofy into your drink and the next thing you know you're waking up in a bathtub of ice missing a kidney with white paint smeared all over your face and a round red nose in your hand, I told B. And the kind that drives a van. And you know what kind of van I'm talking about.
Just as odd, this was only our second or third time in this bar, and the bartender kept feeding us free drinks and I didn't even take my shirt off this time. Naturally, I was convinced these drinks actually were drugged, so it must not have been our livers he was interested in selling on the black market. Or eating. Or making dainty little purses out of.
On second thought, maybe the whole clown thing is part of a greater business model. Because obviously, clowns drive people to drink. Like that clown at Jimmy's sixth birthday party who smelled like stale cigars and was slurring his words and made little Allison cry and kept talking about your mom's great legs and made you a balloon animal penis when you asked for a dog. Pretty sure he knows what I'm talking about.