Talk about your shitty weekends. I’ve heard of Tijuana coke mule vacations that went better than this. What can go wrong at a parade, right? Try everything.

It all started out well enough. Nice day, sun’s out, chicks in majorette outfits, right? Sweet. Couple of brewskies with the guys, taking in the sights. Families are out with their kids, which is always a sweet reminder that you’re not saddled with any little snot goblins of your own. Old people there too, reminding you how great it is not to be them. Could have been the perfect day. Then this fucking clown shows up and it all goes to hell.

For the record: Sure, I was making fun of his poofy pink hair and all that, but ain’t those dudes supposed to be all jolly and shit? Not this guy. As soon as I started clowning on his tired purple dot pants, that freakshow flew into a berserk clown rage. That dude went all postal clown on my ass. I’m telling you, this was one clown who wasn’t secure in his sexuality.

It’s not like I’ve never had my ass kicked before. Meter maids, mailmen, Tommy Frithy’s auntie May—they all know how to bring it. But this clown was something different. Normally when I’m getting my dork kicked in, eventually my pathetic screams are enough to make the assailant lay off for a sec, at least long enough for me to grab the fender of a passing car and be dragged to safety. But not this clown. That dude was enjoying this shit.

I’d be at the pearly gates right now, explaining to Saint Peter why I had a big floppy shoe stuck up my ass if it weren’t for that ice cream truck that rolled up on Mr. Clown right as he was about to take his belt off. Thank God that clown had a weakness for Dilly bars, that’s all I can say. While he was two-fisting those motherfuckers like some kind of refugee fresh out of an ice creamless desert, I managed to drag my broken ass over to an open manhole and flop down inside. By the time he realized where I’d gone it was too late—no way was he going to risk getting his big pink afro-wig wet down in that sewer.

And by the way, thanks for standing up for me, guys. I don’t know what was worse, having a big overweight clown miming anal intercourse with my limp, bleeding body in the middle of the street, or having to hear you guys cracking up and making catcalls the whole time. I might have even forgiven that indignity if you guys hadn’t taken the clown out for drinks afterwards. I guess I know what kind of friends I’ve got. The “for shit” variety.

And to add insult to injury and total humiliation, now the city’s suing my ass for ruining the parade. And I keep getting letters from some jackass who says his kid is afraid of clowns now, thanks to me. But you won’t believe the fucking topper of them all. That fucking clown himself sent me a scary-assed postcard the other day, with a menacing picture of himself on the front and a smear of my own blood on the back.

When I find out which one of you jokers gave him my address, you’re gonna taste my cane, bitch.