Safety Clown Sez Back Off

by pjmcbride

I’m writing this while waiting for Nick to come up with a clever response to me on Facebook, so it may run long.

I saw an ice cream truck on the Taco Bell lot with “Safety Clown Says” on its side. Safety Clown warned us of various ways in which an ice cream truck can harm you. Oddly, they omitted “Contributes to obesity and type 2 diabetes.” And the words “Safety” and “Clown” don’t really go together, do they? “You’ll be safe with meee….forever…”

At McDonald’s, I ran into my esteemed colleague L.L. I have worked with her for many years, but only today did I find out she eats dessert before the rest of the meal.

L.L. is the subject of two funny stories: 1.) dressing in the dark and coming to work with shoes from 2 different pairs on (in fairness, the shoes did look very similar to begin with) and 2.) burning her popcorn and setting off the fire alarm. (The other time we called the fire department at work was when someone left a rotten orange hidden in the fridge.) (The fire department was not called when a Certain Person had hidden a rotting potato in her locker, but it was one of the most hazardous materials I’ve ever smelled. And it looked like smegma. And her locker is right below mine.)

It would only be fair if, instead of just exposing L.L. to public ridicule (well, as public as this thing is, which is to say, not very),  I told some funny coming-to-work stories about myself, but those stories tend to involve me coming to work soaking wet or covered in blood, and are not funny per se. (Although I seem to recall Nick being amused.) (OK, Nick, I take it back, I’m not slandering you, don’t sue me, etc.) (The above paragraph does not reflect the opinions of Nick.)


…like Michael Stipe, who sang that song. I resemble him in other ways, except that I have no plans to shave my head, which has a bump on it from being hit with a blunt object by a co-worker that one time.

I dreamed that we found a meth lab on our property. I had just picked up the phone to call work about it, when there was a knock on the door, and there stood 3 officers, who invited themselves in rather peremptorily. I thought, Oh, great, now there’s no way they’ll believe it’s not mine.  I think I had this dream because Rom encountered a guy coming out of our back yard, and when he asked him what he was doing there, the guy said, “I was just getting my stuff that I’d stashed back there,” holding up a trash bag full of–something–as if the practice were entirely acceptable. And no, we didn’t call 911 about that one, either.


–Dear Nicholas Alan, the reason I didn’t answer dispatch when they called you on the radio the night you came over–even though it would have led to excited speculation if they’d recognized my voice–is because it would have involved handling a piece of unfamiliar equipment.

–Dear McDonald’s on St Joe, please fix the stall door in the women’s restroom, which is the screechiest door I have ever encountered. Not only does it get on my nerves and sound like a crypt, but it alerts the entire establishment that I’ve just used the restroom.

–Speaking of which, dear Walgreen’s, thank you for your liberal store policy, which accepts “This nail polish got on my nerves” as an acceptable reason for a return.

Have I gone on long enough?