CLowns Ate Mys Socks
By Mary Potts, during one of her less sane moments
Warning: Written late at night. May contain nonsense.
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It was a dark and stormy night. Or at least it would have been, if it hadn’t been a bright sunny morning. Joe, whose real name was Sal but everyone called him Mike, was standing in front of the general store that doubled as a combination gas station, garage, and dentist’s office. He tossed away his cigarette and dug the butt into the ground with the heel of his shoe, which he was wearing on his left hand for some reason.
Suddenly, he heard the ring of a bicycle bell, and he looked up to see Jenny Fisher pull up in her four-door sedan. “Hi, Davy!” she called in a singsong voice.
He rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? My name’s Clarence!”
Jenny pouted and stepped out of the truck. “Oh, Chuckie, I’m sorry. I’ll remember, next time.” She walked over to him, her skirt swishing around her legs like a large broom trying to race a zamboni across a field of live tortoises, and smiled a saccharine smile. “I was wondering---tomorrow’s my birthday, so I’m having a little to-do at my fabulous eighty-room mansion. Would you like to come?”
“NO.” He took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it.
Jenny frowned a saccharine frown. “Why not?”
He threw the cigar on the ground and stepped on it, which was painful for his bare foot since he was still wearing the shoe on his left hand. “Because I don’t go to parties with red heads,” he said, hopping up and down and clutching his burned foot.
“But I’m a brunette!” Jenny said, and held up a strand of her blonde hair for emphasis.
“In that case, I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Oh, goodie!” Jenny smiled and kissed him on the cheek, which made him blush and pull up his trousers. Then she climbed back into her Lincoln and drove home.
Fred sighed and went back to smoking his pipe. Just what does one wear to a party?
THE END
