Hey Brad, it’s your brother Robert. I guess you’re not answering my calls again, but I’m sure you were expecting an apology, so here goes.

I am never going to apologize, Brad, never. You might say I ruined Dad’s funeral by appearing in my full regalia, but this is performance art. This is my life! I’m not a clown some of the time, Brad, I’m a clown all of the time. And so what if the funeral director kicked me out and swore never to do business with our family again? Did you want him to do business with us again soon, Brad? Are you saying you want one of us to die?

I am willing to admit that honking my nose at Aunt Linda while she was in the middle of her eulogy might have crossed a line, but she just wouldn’t stop crying. I was trying to inject some levity into the situation. It’s what everyone wanted—learn to read a room. And don’t think I didn’t immediately notice that my one-man-band tribute had been taken off the program. I was the bigger person and didn’t say anything about it—mostly because you were avoiding me and refused to talk—but I can’t believe you would dishonor Dad’s memory like that by cutting what would have been a moving, heartfelt rendition of his favorite songs on kazoo.

I had also planned a brief performance where I made balloon animals and then popped them in front of all the mourners. Much like the cancer effectively “popped” Dad’s lungs. I had my camera ready to go to film the performance for my YouTube channel, so not only did all of Dad’s friends and family miss out on my masterpiece, so did my 269 subscribers.

And because I know it’s going to come up, let me just say that, no, my oversized shoes did not ruin the mood. I was an excellent pallbearer and the loud, flatulent squeak with every step was in fact a meditation on our mortality. I had to wear those shoes anyway, I paid a butt load for them. They were size 15F—the “F” is for fun, obviously—and hand-crafted by famed clown artisan Marina DiNozzo. You know the old saying, “Don’t be a Bozo, shop with DiNozzo.” I’m sure you’ve heard of her.

My entire ensemble was a masterpiece. The pom-poms on my jumpsuit were hand-stitched, dyed in Ronald Red! I choose nothing less than the best to honor Dad, and you show up wearing a clean, nicely-fitting suit like some sort of corporate drone.

At the end of the day, I think this is a “you” issue, Brad. I know you’ve always been jealous of our relationship. Dad never expected much from you. It was always “Of course I’ll come to your little league games” and “You’ll get a great job with that accounting degree in no time” and “Cute kids.” I, on the other hand, was the one he respected. “Grow up, Robert. Get a real job. Who do you think that clown shit is going to impress?” He encouraged me to hone my skills. He knew I was stepping into a cutthroat industry and he wanted me to really challenge myself to be the best.

It’s just a shame he was never able to make it to any of my shows.

So don’t you think this is what Dad would have wanted? This is my art, Brad, and I gave Dad the performance of a lifetime. Granted, it wasn’t his lifetime, but you have to blame the lung cancer for that, Brad, that one’s not on me. I knew I wasn’t wanted, and also the funeral director threatened me, so I chose to leave with dignity. Or I tried to leave with dignity but it was really hard to fit myself and my giant shoes into that tiny novelty car I rented. It was humiliating to have to get out and push it through the parking lot, so if you think it about it, really it was my day that was ruined.

This is the last you’ll be hearing from me, Brad, at least until I need to borrow some money again. I think it’s pretty shitty of you to blame me for spending the catering money on make-up and weed, when I already explained I had to spend all my make-up and weed money on rent. What was I supposed to do, Brad, not pay my rent? My only other option would be to live with you! No thanks. I don’t need your ridiculous hygiene standards or judgmental career advice. So honk, honk, Brad, and good riddance. That funeral was my finest performance! Or it would have been if I hadn’t been so rudely asked to leave. Guess you feel like a fool, so who’s the clown now?

Spoiler alert, Brad. It’s me.