In most cases, I can deny any sort of involvement in these projects, and just pretend that my home town is a hip little oasis in the middle of Texas, but once in a while I get a grim reminder that there really isn’t an escape from country craft. It’s everywhere. And it has frizzy hair.
I’m sure the original intent was something kind of cute and wholesome, but all I can think of right now is the $9.89 five-pound chub of ground chuck I accidentally left in an icebox for, like, three days. Big and puffy and distended and it might have had a face, I don’t know.
Did I leave the iron on?
I just…don’t know. I don’t remember turning it off…I don’t actually remember if I own one at all, or even if I’m supposed to be wearing clothes, or if I’m happy and free as four spring sausages frolicking in the sun. What would I iron if I did? The flowers? My arms? Wouldn’t that sting? Why did the maker give me the gift of thought and then saddle me with endless worry? And this hair? Life really is suffering…
What’s worse than being a one-eyed clown?
I really don’t know, I’m asking. But I’d imagine that being a one-eyed clown with that particular collar would be worse. He looks so violated. Even the big-headed Japanese fireman makes fun of him. And then you’ve pretty much hit rock bottom, until your head breaks off and rolls under the shelf.
Which might actually be an improvement.
Quilt-girl from Savers on Burnet and North Loop, bricklike clown from Savers on South Burnet. Pretend you’re surprised if the Japanese firekid turns up in another post, it’d make me feel better.