I took my kids to the circus this weekend. There are few things in life I hate as much as the circus, that gaudy, shucksterrific slice of Americana whose sole purpose is not to entertain, but to give gainful employment to pederast drifters and people who like to burn things. I look at the ringmaster, who has now apparently had singing added to his list of super-annoying job duties, and I think to myself, “Good God, man. Your job is to go from town to town wearing that suit. That’s pretty much it. Have you no pride?” I guess I just don’t get the circus.
I’m not too sure my kids do either, which is upsetting given the ticket price and the fact that they are only reason I would ever attend a circus if we don’t count massive brain damage as a reason. They were more excited about the fact that the circus tent was set up in the parking lot of our local mall (and isn’t that the sign of a quality circus?). “Look!” I’d say, doing my best to keep sarcasm entirely out of my voice. “People on trampolines! Wow! Look how high they can jump!”
“Hahahaha!” my kids would reply. “Look at me! I’m standing in the parking lot!” And they’d stand there in front of our seats (third fucking row, mind you), looking down at the parking lines, looking around, and giggling at being inside but still in the parking lot.
“Look! Clowns! I bet you… I mean, isn’t that the funniest… You know what? Fuck it. If they can’t out-wow a slab of fucking asphalt, fuck these circus geeks right in their spangly asses.”
To be fair, the circus did eventually catch my kids attention: They saw the lighted swords for sale and instantly began to plead for one. And by instantly, I mean incessantly. From the time they saw them until 45 minutes after we left, all they could talk about was how much of a prick I was for not buying them lethal weapons that would blink red, green, and blue, even when impaled in your little brother. Occasionally, the PA would remind us, “Remember, folks, for the safety of our performers, no flash photography!” But flashing swords are apparently a-ok. I guess the difference is that they can’t charge me for using my own flash camera. If I would’ve known that they were selling lighted swords at the circus, I would have brought a one million candle-power strobe light for the trapeze and high wire acts.
I should note that the circus itself, as far as that kind of thing goes, was fine. It wasn’t a huge production, and I noticed that the girl keeping 47 hula-hoops going was also on the trapeze, swung around on a rope 40 feet off the ground in the arms of some burly dude, and was also the target of some flaming spears an emo-looking magician began violently throwing around (SPOILER: She wasn’t killed). If you were part of this circus, you fucking worked for your Cracker Jack and candy apple dinner.
Everyone did a little of everything in this show, even catching people flying through the air, preventing them from dying in a strange parking lot. This meant that everyone was really fucking strong and really fucking broad in the shoulders, even the ladies, which gave them all an East Germany Women’s Shot Put Team kind of look. It was hard to appreciate their womanly charms, even with the incredibly skimpy outfits. Instead of tuning out the circus and thinking lewd thoughts, I found myself in a constant state of near-alarm, thinking things like, “Look at the thighs on that one! She’d probably crack my head open like a fucking coconut!”
But everyone in the circus was really professional, if you can call wearing a rhinestone unitard a profession. They even fired a guy out of a cannon at the end of the show, which would have been a lot better if it was at the beginning of the show, I was in the cannon, and it was aimed at my couch at home, because fuck the circus. I hate those fucking things.
Ok, on to the week you missed while Zorbo the Magnificent tried to lure your kids backstage with a wad of cotton candy.
- A couple of Tuesdays ago, I devoted over 4,000 words to a former employer of mine who was short, cheap, clueless, and all about the high school poon-tang.
- The Wednesday before last, Ray LaHood stepped down so that I could take over a large, bureaucratic institution, and sit in my office writing dick jokes all day.
- Also on that day, I blathered on and on and on about nothing in particular, which is notable only because usually I don’t admit it. Also, I wrote about doing mushrooms with a friend and how we BLEW OUR FUCKING MINDS. (I know, what a shocker.)
- A couple of Thursdays ago, we marveled at a squirrel shitting his tiny squirrel pants.
- Last Tuesday, we learned about my dog’s bathroom habits. What can I say? I like to keep this blog classy.
- Last Wednesday, I introduced everyone to Raoul, my IT monkey. And everyone wept and cursed my name. I’m getting used to that, actually.
- Also last Wednesday, Hot Drinks!
- And finally, on February 8th, I burned my last bridge by applying for a job at Dominos. If I ever hit the skids in a severe way, I’ll regret this.
I should mention something about my post Hot Drinks, last Wednesday. After I posted it, I sent the following Tweet to Wendy’s:
Shortly thereafter, Wendy’s replied:
So let the record reflect that either Wendy’s is so nerdish that they seriously think the Hot Drinks video is cool, in which case I’m on my way over to take Wendy’s lunch money, or they actually have a sense of humor. I’m leaning towards the former because…
We should give Wendy’s credit, though. At least they’re trying to have fun with it, unlike those suicidal fucks manning the counter at McDonald’s:
That doesn’t surprise me about McDonald’s, actually. Everything with a clown in it is fucking horrible. (Full circle for the win!)
And with that, another new week is upon us. Let’s try to make it all the way through without punching anyone in the neck. Unless it’s a clown.