On a crisp autumn Friday night, my wife and I were lounging, quiescent, in our living room. The fire was crackling, and the smell of cinder was covering up the stench of my daughter’s soiled diaper. We were about to turn off the record player…the sounds of Burt Bacharach, the shearling soft voice, and something about this Alfie fellow. It was the end of the television programming day, and our national anthem was about to be heard.
- Le Clown?
- Yes, munchkin?
- You know what tomorrow is?
- [Trick Question] Saturday? Your birthday? Our wedding anniversary? Our wedding day?
- No, silly clown… Tomorrow is the Christmas Parade. Should we make it a family day?
- Yes. I guess?
- You are a dear.
- What did you say, my sweet Rumpy-diddle?
- Nothing, my little doodle-bug. I’m looking forward to it.
- [End of national anthem. End of quietude. Pull-out the old XMAS knitted sweater.]
Saturday morning. Our plans to sleep-in were cancelled the night before when our daughter decided otherwise—sleep is a waste of time, wake-up daddy, it’s 1:00 A.M.
First things first: coffee for everyone. And before you tag us as negligent parents, our daughter’s cup of joe was 1/4 white table sugar and 1/4 18% cream, as is recommended by the C.R.A.P. (Canadian Rejects Association of Pediatricians).
We prepared our ride for the long trip: fresh polar bear cub meat and steroids for our sled dogs. Seal pup fur and Siberian tiger skins to keep us warm during our travel.
Not that I am vain, but I will only be seen in public in my best clothes, even if it means burying them under a cardigan, a fleece pull over, and an insulated winter jacket. For men.
Incognito (cleverly disguised as a hipster), is the only way Le Clown can enjoy a peaceful outing with his family… even during The Santa Claus Parade. And yes, I’m duckfacing. Don’t hate.
It’s been said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery… unless you make one hella ugly Le Clown. Then it’s grounds for an ass whooping.
There was a bit of controversy during our field trip. A few Americans couldn’t wait for their own Christmas parade. They thought they could infiltrate ours dressed as Klansmen—complete with wooden batons—and not be recognized as Yankee interlopers.
Y U NO LOVE BLUE SANTA? Well my man, that’s cause you’re Clint Eastwood crazy. Please stop open mouth breathing on my kids.
See me with no scarf on the above picture? That’s all it took for Le Clown, a Montreal mega celebrity, to be recognized by his adulating hometown fans.
Stealing the show away from His Jolliness brought the Wrath of St. Nick upon Le Clown… Santa’s an a-hole.
The police intervened, and Le Clown and his family were asked to vacate the premises. There could only be one star on Santa’s day, and Le Clown had to concede. We left, after I signed another autograph for the police officer.
We headed for home. Santa, you’ve been a bad boy. No gifts for you.