Busting Six Words Out All Over Your Face

Today is my best friend's birthday. What better way to celebrate than to write a Six Word Saturday post in his honor. So, here you go, chief:

Happy Birthday to the Brewing Optometrist!

My best friend and I did a lot of stupid shit while we were in high school as teenage guys are prone to doing. Trying to pick just one story would do him a severe injustice, but I'm fucking lazy, so I'll tell you one of my favorites. One of the great things about our friendship was that it was a second generation friendship: his father and my pa had been best friends when they were in high school. Plus, he has red hair and big pecs. Hmmm...maybe I shouldn't have told you that last part.

Fortunately, he was about the only person my mom would let me ride in the car with, so he was typically the driver in our misdeeds. One day, we were in the mighty metropolis of Bluffton, IN, up to the normal chivalrous deeds that two high school lads would be up to on a fine day in early June. Such exemplary deeds as: minding our P's and Q's, rescuing kittens from trees, picking up litter, helping old ladies across the street--okay, fine, I admit it. We were buying comic books. There, are you happy? Christ almighty. You people bitch about everything.

Anyway, after we were finished in the den of dorkdom, we loaded back into the car and were pulling back out onto the main drag of the town (there was really only one drag in Bluffton, but I digress). As we were waiting for traffic to clear so that we could turn right on red, we noticed that there was a car wash in the Hardee's parking lot to our right.

Are you guys familiar with the charity car washes, or is this just a midwestern thing? The model for this is brilliant in its simplicity: you line up a bunch of cute girls to volunteer to work at the car wash. This, in turn, nets you a bunch of slovenly guys who pretend to care about charity so that they can hang out with the cute girls. You then make the slovenly males wash the cars while the girls, who are usually wearing bikini tops or white t-shirts that they've tied up in the front so their bellies are exposed, stand around holding signs to "advertise" for the car wash. Perverts Passersby see the girls and thus they decide their vehicles are in desperate need of a wash, so they pull into the parking lot for a very sick and dirty fantasy car wash, only to discover that some squeaky-voiced guy with a half-formed beard from the First Street United Methodist Church Youth Group is asking them for five bucks. Like I said, it's brilliant.

Anyway, there was a car wash next to us, with all the requisite filthy hot teens holding up their signs. But wait, there's more. There was...a clown. The clown, seeing us in our precarious position at the stop light, decided to approach the car. As we're waiting at the light and discussing all the egregious and perverted things we'd do to the high school chicks if we were given the chance Kafka, the clown sticks his head in the driver's side window (my side) and utters his stupid clown giggle. It sounded kind of like if Goofy were being given a prostate exam.

"Hey boys, you want a car wash?" the clown asks after giggling in our space.

Without missing a beat, my best friend leans over me and flips the clown a double bird right in his face. He bellows, "Fuck you, Clown!" as loudly as he can and, without checking traffic, stomps on the accelerator, rocketing us forward and around the curb. One problem: the clown's head was still in the car.

The force of the acceleration carried the clown's head with us, but--and this is rather tragic--the remainder of the clown, well, remained. As we sped away from the scene at--literally--breakneck speed, my gales of mirthful laughter suddenly turned to the terrified shrieks of the damned as something landed in my lap. Staring back at me, with a look of horror and shock on his face with his hollow, haunted eyes staring deep into my soul, was the clown's head.

To say I've never been quite the same since would be an understatement.

So, here we are, tearing through town with the remains of a freshly decapitated clown on my freaking lap and we have no idea what to do. We can hear sirens, but can't see the pursuit cars yet. We know it would be a bad idea to be pulled over with the clown's head still in our possession. Fortunately, the Wabash River runs through Bluffton, so, as we approached the bridge, I picked up the decollated clown's head and heaved it out the window, over the railing of the bridge and into the murky brown waters below, thus ridding myself of our rather maudlin souvenir from the trip to the comic book shop.

Okay, so, the last few parts might have been a bit embellished. However, everything up to the words "Fuck you, Clown" was true. Oh, and the Brewing Optometrist did floor it to escape the scene because, seriously, clowns are lame and fucking creepy.

And now you know why I chose him to be my daughter's Godfather, which is a fitting way to end this tale because today is also my daughter's First Communion. See what I did there? I took the story full circle. Well, not really, but I kind of distracted you from the decapitated clown story, didn't I?

No? Well, fuck you, I'm not paying for your therapy. Happy Birthday, J!

Have more fun, six words at a time, over at Cate's place!