One of my friends, whom I have known for many years, will be celebrating the anniversary of her divorce soon. I shall call her “Sally.” Her husband was (probably still is, I wouldn’t know) kind of a creepy letch. And by “kind of,” I mean “totally and completely.” He had some French name, like “Jean-Pierre.” We just called him “JP.”
The other day, we were all at a different friend’s house, playing games. “Uncle Julian” is the kids’ self-styled “fairy Godfather,” and one of my favoritest people in the whole wide world. His mom died recently, and one of the things he had on display was a boxed doll of a famous local TV clown that was popular when Julian was little. I grew up in Chicago, so I had Bozo, but all of my Seattle friends assure me that J.P. Patches was the shit in his day.
As awesome as J.P. Patches and his show were, however, the doll was distinctly creepy. As are pretty much all clown dolls. While discussing the relative creep factor of this particular doll, Whit (in all innocence) says,
Oh! Oh–since he’s so creepy, is that why everyone always called Sally’s husband “JP?”
My boy. Always tying things together in such neat packages of awesome.