Amman has one clown. For the entire 4 million strong city there is a single, chronically depressed, "between jobs", unshaven and unloved clown.
Usually the self hatred acquired is spread over multiple unhappy people but the burden of entertaining Amman's entire infant population fell on a single poor motherfucker. It's also important to note that this, poor, manic depressive dude was one of those prostitute clowns who are hired out by clown pimps.
As a result of that; for every birthday party I experienced for a few years, he was there. Mine included.
I am, as previously discussed, the eldest in my family and as such I was pretty much my grandparent's familial crash test dummy. Believe it or not it took actual trial and error to convince my grandmother that not every child liked Barney the Purple Asshole. I was an Elmo person. TeleTubbies freaked me the fuck out (and continue to do so) and I found Barney monotone to a degree that sickened me even as a child but I felt a real connection with Cookie Monster and that powered me through childhood. When I turned three I, naturally, expected to see my childhood idol, Cookie Monster, at the party. I was disappointed. My grandmother was totally adamant that every child loved Barney. That liking Barney the Purple Cunt was a qualifier for being a child and the fact that I was a child meant that vice-versa applied. She was so completely certain that I loved Barney that she hijacked a fucking infant's birthday party plans and called the dude in the Barney suit.
I was not amused. Not at all. I tactfully avoided the pedophilic hugs and subtly loathed Barney from afar at various points in time, always moving so that he'd never get a fix on me. Eventually, due to the ridiculous amounts of strawberry milk I consumed, I had to use the bathroom and who do I find in the bathroom? Barney. Motherfucking Barney who's decided that halfway through an infant's party is the perfect time to bum out a cigarette and have a goddamn smoke break. However, to take a smoke break one is usually required to have access to one's mouth and as such Barney had taken off his mascot-style helmet and placed it in the sink. What was under the mask was not a bleeding spinal cord as I had expected, but the well known face of the much abused clown who hadn't even bothered to take off the makeup from his previous gig and looked so distraught at being alive that I decided not to alert him to my presence.
I'd made a monumental discovery. Barney wasn't real. For a 3 year old the ability to demolish his least favorite classmates dreams was a victory of the highest standards. Before I rushed out to destroy my enemies' dreams my mother spotted me exiting the smoking bathroom and stopped me. She had realized from my demeanor (and from the smell of the bathroom) that I had discovered the ultimate secret. She also understood that I was a loudmouthed evil little shit and would destroy her standing within the secret mom's circle. If I had understood bribery and blackmail then, I would have made a killing, but she just used subtly passive-aggressive remarks about the continued existence of my presents as leverage to make me keep it a secret and I had almost forgotten about it. Almost.
I am, as previously discussed, the eldest in my family and as such I was pretty much my grandparent's familial crash test dummy. Believe it or not it took actual trial and error to convince my grandmother that not every child liked Barney the Purple Asshole. I was an Elmo person. TeleTubbies freaked me the fuck out (and continue to do so) and I found Barney monotone to a degree that sickened me even as a child but I felt a real connection with Cookie Monster and that powered me through childhood. When I turned three I, naturally, expected to see my childhood idol, Cookie Monster, at the party. I was disappointed. My grandmother was totally adamant that every child loved Barney. That liking Barney the Purple Cunt was a qualifier for being a child and the fact that I was a child meant that vice-versa applied. She was so completely certain that I loved Barney that she hijacked a fucking infant's birthday party plans and called the dude in the Barney suit.
I was not amused. Not at all. I tactfully avoided the pedophilic hugs and subtly loathed Barney from afar at various points in time, always moving so that he'd never get a fix on me. Eventually, due to the ridiculous amounts of strawberry milk I consumed, I had to use the bathroom and who do I find in the bathroom? Barney. Motherfucking Barney who's decided that halfway through an infant's party is the perfect time to bum out a cigarette and have a goddamn smoke break. However, to take a smoke break one is usually required to have access to one's mouth and as such Barney had taken off his mascot-style helmet and placed it in the sink. What was under the mask was not a bleeding spinal cord as I had expected, but the well known face of the much abused clown who hadn't even bothered to take off the makeup from his previous gig and looked so distraught at being alive that I decided not to alert him to my presence.
I'd made a monumental discovery. Barney wasn't real. For a 3 year old the ability to demolish his least favorite classmates dreams was a victory of the highest standards. Before I rushed out to destroy my enemies' dreams my mother spotted me exiting the smoking bathroom and stopped me. She had realized from my demeanor (and from the smell of the bathroom) that I had discovered the ultimate secret. She also understood that I was a loudmouthed evil little shit and would destroy her standing within the secret mom's circle. If I had understood bribery and blackmail then, I would have made a killing, but she just used subtly passive-aggressive remarks about the continued existence of my presents as leverage to make me keep it a secret and I had almost forgotten about it. Almost.
