Clowns, Balloons, Butts, and Truckers

A week ago, on the rainy gloomy Saturday before the rainy gloomy Saturday that was yesterday, Rufus and Beaudreax were both invited to birthday parties (for 2 different childrens). So I spent the day hauling and shuttling, and trying to be a good socializer. The party that Rufus attended was first, and I was struck by, no matter how old the parents are (these were probably older than Bumpus and me by 5 years), you can always tell parents who are just learning how to put on small-child birthday parties. I don't say this with pride in my heart--I am no junior Martha for Tots--but you do pick up hints and tips from attending and putting on these 2-hour terror fests, and one can always tell when parents are on the beginning steps of that learning curve.

These kind, sweet parents had rented a 20X20 room at the local event center, which was plain and empty, very generically made for a variety of purposes, including meetings and traveling photographer setups. While all 7 four- and five-year olds were seated quietly in a half-circle in front of the table with the cake, a clown and her helper showed up. Rather than even say hello to the patiently waiting crowd, they just quietly took a seat in the corner and started painting the face of the birthday girl. The rest of us sat quietly and watched.

The Mom In Charge saw that this was a challenging situation (6 4- and 5-year olds sitting and watching in boredom), so she started handing out drinks. The choices: Coke, Dr. Pepper, and Sprite. Well, as you know, Rufus does not need any chemicals or man-made brews full of energy-producing sugar/caffeine combinations to be his normal enteraining self, so, although he loudly proclaimed that he would like a COKE THANK YOU, he received a Sprite, the best choice of the bunch. I opened it, and he began guzzling. (Yes, these drinks and the cookies and cake would gradually turn the room into a hellacious hall of chaos, littered with trash and inhabited by 7 ADHD monkies on crack.)

So next came the clown's helper, who was making his way around the room offering children a twisted balloon prize. The boy right before us got a sword, but as the helper approached Rufus, he had a large octopus in his hands. "Would you like this?" he kindly asked. The room was still quiet as the effects of the drugs had not yet kicked in. "No," answered Rufus, and the man went on to offer it to the next child. "Why didn't you want it?" I asked. And my angelic young gentleman-in-training turned to me so innocently, in that quiet room, on that quiet rainy day, with those well behaved children, and said, "Because what I really wanted was a...[now switch to the sound coming out of the wide-open mouth of a 300-pound truck driver who has just guzzled a Mickey's Malt Liquer and who, in a fruitless attempt to hide the top of his butt-crack back into his undersized jeans, hikes up his pants and burps with such force that it parts the hair of the topless dancer two tables over]...SWOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRDuh."

Yes, like his Southern Belle mother who can string the whole alphabet on one drag of Shiner, Rufus can burp-talk. And the silence of the rest in the room, as I almost fell out of my chair trying to keep a straight face, proved once again that he is going to be president of his fraternity.