Leave me the f*ck alone!

His fingers stained from nicotine Tickle Me Elmo clutched a whiskey filled flask.  “I’m tired of this shit.  I’m tired of kids always wanting to tickle me.  I mean, it’s in my contract that if they squeeze me once I have to ‘chortle’….whatever the hell a chortle is.  If they squeeze me three times in a row I have to shake and laugh hysterically.  This is bullshit man.  My name is Reginald Dawson III.  I played King Lear in the West End.  Now I’m doing this?”

As Dawson was speaking a mother approached him with her 4-year old daughter.  “My child just loves you Elmo.  Can she tickle you?” Dawson looked up at the pair with an air of resignation.  “Yeah sure, get it over with kid.”

The child squeezed Elmo once and stood back, waiting for Elmo’s trademark laugh.  Dawson looked at the kid and slowly, sarcastically gave a drawn out “Ha…………ha……..ha.  There.  Are you satisfied you brat?”  The child started to cry as her mother comforted her.

Dawson drank from his flask and  looked at the child.  “Hey kid.”  The child stopped crying and approached Elmo, perhaps looking for approbation from her idol.

“Hey kid” he repeated.  “Your mother’s a MILF.   Yeah, I’d do her.”

As the child burst into a renewed round of crying the mother picked up her kid and scolded Dawson.  “I hope you can live with yourself you monster!” before walking away.

“Whatever.  Hey I make more in a week than you do all year lady!  I hate these malls.  I hate these personal appearances.”

Dawson stood up and shouted to the crowd of kids.  “Hey, you kids want to see Elmo shake?  Do you?  Take away my booze.  Then you’ll really see me shake.”

As he was in danger of starting a riot, I suggested we take a walk around the parking lot.  Dawson held onto me for support as we dodged in and out of cars.

“I never should have signed that goddamn contract.  I sold my soul for some money.  I could be doing Shakespeare now.   But no.  I’ll forever be Tickle me F—ing Elmo.”

We sat down on a curb.  Dawson pulled out his cigarettes and offered me one.   We smoked for a couple minutes as we watched mothers and their children enter the mall.

“My contract’s up in a year.  Maybe I’ll take the money and run……start a theater company in Montana….do the classics….. Aeschylus…..Aristophanes…..Eugene O’Neill…..yeah, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Dawson didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular as he took another drink from his flask.  I suggested that he might want to go easy on that.

“Doesn’t matter anymore.  My liver is shot.  Every time these kids tickle me I almost pass out from the pain. And now they want to expand the Elmo brand?  Extreme Elmo?  Did you hear about this shit?”

I told him I hadn’t.

 “Now everytime a kid hugs me they want me to roll around on the floor laughing and smashing my fist on the ground.  Who am I?  Shatner?”

It was then that he cried “Oh god” and leaned forward, vomiting on the sidewalk.  A mother and her son happened to walk by at this moment.  She shook her head disapprovingly as her child said “Mommy, why is Elmo throwing up?  Is he sick?”

When it appeared that the vomiting had ceased I helped Dawson back onto his feet.  He steadied himself and then looked at me.

“I might as well man up and go back inside.  Do you know the only good thing about these personal appearances?  The MILFs.  Maybe I can get some action today.  If not…..”  his voice trailed off.  He was silent for a minute.  “I guess there’s always prostitutes” he said.

I agreed and watched him walk back into the mall, just another disgruntled mascot surrounded by his fans.

(344)