A Satanic Clown Showed Up At My Cat’s Birthday Bash
Emoji prompt and a coulrophobia-crushing felinophobic’s personal hell
🥶 🤡👹⚡🎉🙀💜
“It’s all ready!” shouts my partner, clove hitching the last balloon to the banister. We’re both winded after draining our lungs into 68 plastic sacs the color of our 13-year-old feline’s latest kill. “T minus 36 minutes until the crowds arrive!”
A week after our furry Ophelia had finished chemotherapy, we’d decided this impromptu birthday gala was the kind of joy-filled pep we all needed. All of our neighbors and friends had been sent hasty invites, catfood-filled cake had been baked, and goodie bags bigger than her litterbox had been filled with eco-friendly hemp toys.
“When’s that dude Benjie supposed to get here?” Shelagh asks, sipping on coffee that has long gone cold. “The clown that specializes in cat parties?”
“Half an hour,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Gives us enough time to set up that stage area out back near the pool. No one’s bringing their suits, right? It’s still too cold.”
“Well, Marjorie probably will. You know her. Ever since that Alaskan cruise where she licked that iceberg, she thinks she’s Lewis Gordon Pugh.”
