Stupid Fucking Scary Dream Clowns

Caroline woke up at 6 AM today, after months of finally sleeping until 8. As I sat watching her pick the sugary raisins out of her bran cereal, eat the raisins and abandon the bran, she explained why.

Caroline: Up there, a cwown bit me right here.

Me: A what? A cwab?

Caroline: No, a cwown, up there.

Me: Oh, a clown. Up there, in your bedroom.

Caroline: He bit me right here.

Me: Oh, don't worry sweetie, that was just a dream. There aren't any clowns upstairs, and no one bit you on your side. See you don't have any marks.

Well, Caroline seemed unhurt by her encounter with the scary dream clown, but I want to put y'all on warning: None y'all scary dream clowns better fuck with my child. Stay away from our fucking house, you fucking fuckers. I learned a lot about psychic dream combat in graduate school (all analytic philosophers have to study this stuff, it's like modal logic) and I can kick your ass.

Scary clown picture moved below the fold to protect delicate sensibilities.