Creepy Clowns

Sonny is an Urban Legend creator’s dream. And the latest Urban Legend he’s in for broke on is the Creepy Clown Craze sweeping the nation!

He suspects creepy clowns will be waiting for him in groups of three on the front porch when he gets home from school. Or perhaps lurking in our backyard, hidden in the shadow of a tree, just one…beckoning him to his death.  And if not in the backyard, then most certainly in his bedroom, probably right around four of the ayyy em.  He’ll most likely find two leaning over him just as he’s jolting himself out of a nightmare about two creepy clowns leaning over him.

So it’s no surprise as I’m driving him home from his flag football game tonight (down a very dark and tree lined street with minimal streetlights) that he says, “I always think I’m going to see clowns on this street.”

Yep. This would be the street where the clowns hang out and cause mayhem.  But ok.  I’m in for broke too because there’s no dissuading the kid from his clown obsession.  Here we go….

“Really, Buddy? Cuz that seems pretty nutso, donchathink!?  But we’ve had that talk already about the power of suggestion and the clown business.  So let’s have a different talk.  What would you want me to say to you if I DID spot a clown?  Would you want me to yell ‘LOOK OUT, THERE’S A CLOWN!!!!’”  And I shout so loud his arm kinda jerks and his water bottle goes flying.

He turns his head to me all startled, but serious and says, “No! Not like that!! I would want you to say it very calmly, real quiet.”

He’s still looking at me, so I look right back at him and say very quietly, “Don’t look now, but there’s a clown. Shhhhhhh.”

To which he replies, “Oh my gosh, MOM! REALLY??!?!!!”

We’re at a stop sign by this point and I’m still looking at him as he’s looking at me.  He clearly thinks – since we’re stopped right here on the street where the clowns lurk – that there’s a  clown peering into the passenger’s side window right…behind….him. So I smile a totally dumb smile, look into his eyes and say, “Yes.  I’m looking at the clown right now.”  And I keep smiling the dopey smile.

His face falls from fear into total annoyance. Clowns are no joking matter.  HIM as a clown is no joking matter.

Then I start singing:

Where ARE the clownnnnnns…

Send innnn the clownnnnnns….

Don’t botherrrrrrr they’re heeeeeeeere….


I was just in New Orleans, Louisiana. That place is fun.  Pretty wild, in fact.  And also exhausting. Especially that part where you have to walk down Bourbon Street with a plastic cup as tall as a yardstick, filled with piña colada.

So it’s a good thing that the airport in NOLA is an international one and you can fly back to the United States when you’re done with the piña colada.

But first you have to go through security at the airport. It looks and feels (and smells?) just like every other security, but the difference with the NOLA security is that it’s all just a big setup to get in a pretty girl’s pants.


This is the exact truth.

Let me explain.

There I am, standing spread eagle in the security screening thingie that’s reminiscent of a revolving door, I’ve got my arms crossed in surrender above my head – just like in the helpful picture they post for you to stare at.

When I come out of the revolving door, the TSA agent asks me to step to the side. As I’m doing so, I look back over my shoulder to the screen that shows your big, round head, and all your supposed metal bits highlighted in yellow.  There on the screen is a yellow splotch the size of a softball.  At the top of my pants. In the back.

Wait! WHAT?!?  No, no, no!!!  There’s no metal in my pants RIGHT THERE!  Waitwaitwait.  No!  I swear to you, there’s no metal in my pants AT ALL!!  The yellow splotcher mcbob is broken.  Please, PLEASE, who would smuggle metal through airport security in the back of their pants?!? Not me!  NOT ME!!!

But because stuff that happens in New Orleans always seems like it’s one click away from going mediaeval on your a$$, I’m afraid to protest and cause a scene. Also?  It WILL seem like I’m trying to smuggle metal through security in the back of my pants in a “methinks she doth protest too much” sort of way.

…and then I’ll use the backs of my hands to smooth down and over that area. So shall we begin?…

While I’ve been flipping out in my head about my metal filled pants (that aren’t really filled with metal), the TSA agent has been describing how my strip search is gonna go down.

…it’s your right to a security screening in private if you prefer…

Actually? I prefer no screening.  NO SCREENING ATALL!!!  Can we arrange that?!

…if you decline that, I’ll need you to face away from me and open the waistband of your pants…

Ok, now we’ve veered into some weird “poopy diaper check” version of a cavity search and I decide that it’s not gonna happen this way without me piping up, “Listen. I want you to know that there’s no metal in my pants so I’m not sure why it showed up on the screen that way; I really, really think your screen is broken.”

…very good, Ma’am, now your waistband…

Wow. How many times has this TSA agent heard the “I don’t have metal in my pants” shtick?!  Not even a flicker of emotion.  Robot much?!

Resigning myself to the fact that there’s no fighting against automatons who want a sneak peek at the magic, I open my waistband before God and country. While standing in the security line.  At the New Orleans airport.

…Not your underwear, Ma’am. Just your jeans…

Ok. Can I please go away and die now?  Please??

But first, I have to submit to a full bum smoosh …with the backs of my hands, Ma’am… before being given the all clear and sent off to curl up and die/cry in a corner somewhere.

Tried to tell ya there wasn’t anything of YOUR concern in MY pants.  Showed ya too.

My amazing parting shot? “See!  I told you your screen was broken!  I really think you need to check into that.”

As I’m walking away, I hear the TSA agent say to the woman behind me, “Ma’am, please step to the side…”

Thank HEAVEN you can fly back to the United States from New Orleans when you’re done – because that place is exhausting.