I’ve been having a ball meeting up with bloggers in their real-life forms lately, and I am soon to be meeting up with them in bulk. But, there was one blogger in particular who I just had to meet one on one. I invited the puppet master of blogland, Le Clown, to come down the bayou for a visit and a snow ball that has nothing to do with actual snow. Although I knew he would require my undivided attention and possibly a human leash, I couldn’t have been more excited.
Luckily for me, the internet recently awarded Le Clown with his own private jet simply for existing on the internet in the first place. He was eager to try out his flying skills and packed up for Louisiana. What’s better than a fucking flying clown? Well, probably a clown who is flying and fucking, but let’s not get off topic.
When Le Clown stepped off of his jet, the first thing he said to me was, “Where are the boobs and beads?” I informed him that Mardi Gras had been over for several months, to which he replied, “I thought that was an all year long kind of thing. Why the hell did I even come he–” His sentence was halted when his lungs caught their first dose of Louisiana humidity. I could see that he was panicking, so I quickly rigged him up to some oxygen. It was quite a difficult task with him swatting my hands away like a three-year old and spraying boogers all over the place.
Once he adjusted his breathing, I handed him two ice packs and said, “Here, strap one to each thigh, and let’s go get some food.” He would thank me later. The first thing I had to introduce Le Clown to in Sportsman’s Paradise was the food. It is what Louisiana is known for, besides boobs and beads and toothless alligator hunters. So we hopped in the Terra and headed towards a local seafood shack.
At one point during the car ride, I looked over at Le Clown whose tongue was nearly falling out of his mouth. He was sort of panting. I thought maybe the oxygen flow had somehow become disconnected until I realized that he was just enamoured by all of the smokers on the road with us. I told him that in Louisiana indecent exposure is reserved strictly for the flashing of boobs and that it would be in his best interest to keep it in his pants.
At the restaurant, Le Clown walked in an announced his presence by saying, “I’m ready to suck some heads,” in full french dialect. When we sat down, I ordered some links of boudin as an appetizer and ten pounds of boiled crawfish for us to share. I still don’t know what poutine is, but I assured him this would be better. Le Clown seemed a bit off put by the limply phallic appearance of the boudin, but he seemed to enjoy it nonetheless. I could tell he was really starting to feel at home when he held a link of the boudin at crotch level and started twirling it like a helicopter.
Once he dug into the crawfish, the color of his face began to blend with the hue of his nose. He suddenly got up from his chair and started flailing around the restaurant claiming that his balls were on fire. I told you he would thank me for those ice packs, and he did. He was officially a Cajun Clown with balls on Fire.
Over the next few days, I gave my friend a comprehensive tour of the flats. Le Clown played with the alligators in the man-made swamp on my former college campus. He tried to capture one with the intention of making it his new mascot but became too distracted by trying to climb the cypress trees. We attended the Festival International where all of the people assumed he was an act. Is he not? He took over the main stage with his famous rendition of Loving You by Minnie Riperton which he dedicated to Jack. I would find them cuddling on a pile of cat and clown hair later that evening.
Le Clown ended up leaving Louisiana with ten extra pounds from all of the southern cuisine he consumed and with what looked like some sort of disease from all of the mosquito bites he obtained. As I watched Le Clown fly off in his jet and into the Louisiana sunset, I heard him exclaim in the distance (over his jet’s fancy intercom system), “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” I waved farewell as a prideful grin stretched across my face. Le Clown does Cajun well.