Screw Ebola, there is something far more frightening spreading across this country. A pandemic is sprouting up right beneath our noses and it needs to be addressed immediately. There is a band of freaky ass clowns showing their freaky assed faces in cities all around the country.

These have been reports in Wasco, CA, Albuquerque, NM, Fishers, IN and Jacksonville, FL. Don’t correct me thinking I’m wrong, because in a situation like this you can rest assured I am right. And this means freaky-ass clowns have been confirmed to be walking about in more American cities than Ebola patients. Surely they are plotting murder, because there is *no other reason* for a clown to be just walking around unless they are planning to murder someone.

According to the CDC to get the Ebola you apparently have to go to some pretty extreme measures, like making out with a patient’s toothbrush or doing Pilates in their used gym clothes. One week ago I would have merrily joined a debate about the severity of the Ebola situation, but we have far more pressing issues on our hands now.

One does not simply ignore clowns with soulless eyes wandering around under the cover of darkness.

I once knew someone who peed in their pants one Halloween when confronted with a clown on stilts with a chainsaw, right here in the state of Missouri.

That person definitely wasn’t me, and she definitely wasn’t old enough to drink and vote when she wet her pants in front of a sizable crowd of friends and strangers.


There is a serious problem on our hands right now, people. It has less to do with fevers and diarrhea, and more to do with a dark and troubled soul that is not of Kardashian blood who wanders around shrouded behind a mask of makeup.

I once watched a documentary about a sewer clown in Derry, Maine who had razor sharp teeth and preyed on children. According to the research team in the film, the killer clown they were tracking was like the locusts and comes back on a fairly regular schedule. The last two documented appearances were 1957 and 1984.

It is now 2014. You do the math.


Just nope.

Mrs SmartyPants

all your personal space are belong to us

All your privacy are belong to me.
All your personal space are belong to us.

I pen this missive from the darkest corner of the bedroom closet. The last foothold in our home where you can eat the only peanut butter cup left in the house without fear of the resulting retribution. A place where I should seriously reconsider relocating the shower and toilet as it is the lone destination where they have not been able to detect what is going on within. Thus, it is also the place where I take nap time conference calls, and where today I cower, laptop dimmed and keys lightly plinking so as to not alert those in charge that I am close by.

The personal space of the parental units in our home has been under siege for the last four and a half years. Good Lord, don’t forget to include that half year when addressing the opposing side’s senior in command, also known as The Tiny One. Since being elevated in the ranks following the arrival of her Lieutenant, also known as The Squishy One, her power has grown exponentially. As such, I wish not to have the punishment of such an egregious omission fall upon you.

I tell you this tale today in the hope that someone will send aid in the form of wine and reading material as there is no longer a black market for cigarettes and vodka. This should also be considered a cautionary tale for those anticipating their own invasion, or those, like us, currently under occupation.

Our war – or as some may deem it, military action – began escalating upon The Squishy One’s arrival and as The Tiny One gained power. Where as before there were moments of solitary bliss – never long enough for a relaxing pee, but moments all the same – should we find that window now we must beware the silence is a trap, and signals far worse dangers to come. A trap from which we will escape only to find widespread property damage, with the epicenter of the destruction focused on a piece of furniture or another really nice object purchased prior to the invasion, and certainly an item which we likely can no longer bring ourselves to spend enough money on to properly replace.

Pay very close attention to those silence traps when you are reading some pithy article about celebrity facelifts or commenting on your friend from fourth grade’s sister’s, daughter’s, dog’s latest Facebook photo. We have learned that the use of all electronic devices on the premises is no longer tolerated, and will result in a much larger offensive.

The Squishy One determined early in his career that all electronics belonging to the parental units in this home are his mortal enemies. He was born knowing his destiny is to one day eradicate all traces of Apple products from our household in order to allow trains, tattered books, and those dollar bin toys that multiply in the night to gain a strong foothold. We can only compare it to living with an Amish Gang Lord.

In the last few years The Tiny One and The Squishy One have stepped up their propaganda campaigns, littering our fridge, countertops, and floors with crude drawings of my husband and I, and booklets declaring how much they really do love this family. We are quite impressed that their psychological campaign continues to become more sophisticated while their guerrilla techniques on the ground continue to remain impressive and unpredictable. Just the other day The Squishy One lay on the floor, wriggling his fingers under and shouting through the gap beneath the door before one of us was even mid-stream.

We continue to study their techniques, but they continue to adjust to our defensive measures. Our current intelligence indicates this battle could continue for at least the next 16-18 years, but we continue to observe and remount based on sitter availability and the possible advent of financially reasonable sound proof rooms.

Fighting the good fight for privacy deprived parents everywhere,

Mrs SmartyPants