Demon Clown Baby

You know what I think would be fun to do? When my daughter is a little girl, say about 4 years old, I want to take her to Golden Gate National Cemetary. We’ll visit a grave site and I’ll introduce her to her great-uncle. We’ll visit it every month, and I’ll tell her touching stories of his brave deeds in the war, and how he used to give me caramel apples when I was a kid, and how much I still miss him. It’s a shame you never knew him, you know.

Every month, for years, and extra trips on holidays and his birthday. She’ll grow to love her poor old great-uncle.

Then, when she’s about 13, I’ll tell her the truth: that I have no idea who the guy is that’s buried under there, that I made up all the stories or cribbed them from the 40’s pulps, and that I don’t even like caramel apples.

And when, amidst her tears, she demands to know why, I’ll make up something about how it really had a noble purpose or taught a good lesson, in an attempt to weasel out of it.

Okay. I would never do this. But wow, isn’t it a sick mind that even thinks of things like this?