Years ago, when I was a young dad, my wife and I took my daughter to a kids birthday party. It was for one of my wife’s co-workers kids; and I knew no one there. I remember that the family was Hispanic, and the entertainment at the party was a Spanish clown. For some reason, I remember the clown’s name as Peyote The Clown… but that can’t be right.
Anyway, the clown was just fine and dandy, doing all the things that clowns do. We had a swell time, and I broke down the language/cultural barrier with my usual Anglo charm. When the party was breaking up, I picked up my daughter and put her on my shoulders and started walking. I passed through a doorway and never bothered to duck down. As a result, my daughter loudly, clearly and very noticeably smacked her head into the overhang.
This of course resulted in the truly mighty howls of a 2 year old, as my little pumpkin was screaming her head off. Which brought much attention to Mr. Asshole Dad (yours truly) who then had to endure the hysteria of his wife and the death glares of a house full of total strangers, looking at old Nazz as if he were Dr. Mengele. Even Peyote The Clown started yelling at me.
After a few minutes, my daughter stopped crying and we went on our way.
When we got home, I took a frying pan out and started to crack myself on the skull with it.
To this day (16 years later), I still haven’t been quite forgiven.
PS- We were never invited back for any subsequent birthday parties.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment