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Meet the Nieratkos - Tears of an Elmo

Ever wonder who is inside the costumes of characters children love? It's me. And I'm dying inside.

There's a quote from Bukowski's Barfly (which stars Mickey Rourke's real face) regarding the main character's time working in a toy factory that goes, "You don't know how men suffer for children." Last weekend I found out to exactly what degree they suffer when I donned an official Elmo costume for my nephew's first birthday.

All young children love Elmo. It's actually quite sickening. It didn't used to be this way. There was a time when Cookie Monster reigned supreme and Elmo was just a bit monster. Somewhere along the lines, however, that little red prick usurped the hard working, blue-collar monster with the unhealthy eating disorder. I'm not sure when or why and it doesn't matter. Elmo is in charge and we must all bow to his maniacal giggling.

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The costumed community that whores themselves out to children's parties is well aware of this crimson rise to power, and they've adjusted their appearance fees accordingly. Want Cookie Monster or Big Bird to come to your birthday party? Seventy-five bucks will get them there. They've fallen on hard times. (Clearly, not as hard as Morrissey, who has had to take on side work just to survive.) But if you want the Justin Beiber of Kids' Characters to show up and wave you're going to pay through the teeth. Elmo's appearance fee is $500 + food + alcohol + travel expenses, and my sister was ready to pay it for her son's happiness on this most important of first birthdays.

F that!

"I know a costume house where we can rent the suit for $65," I told her. "I'll dress up as Elmo and save you the money."

And so I did.

I spent the weeks leading up to the party choreographing a routine so amazing, so awe-inspiring, that had it been videotaped and uploaded to YouTube and watched by the cast of Cirque du Soleil it would have prompted the first mass suicide of 2012. Cavalia would have to be canceled. Horses everywhere would've felt slightly vindicated for Luck but still want to put Dustin Hoffman's head in the bed of HBO's president.

My wife was a dancer in her past life. Did you know that? Not a stripper, you asshole! A dancer. Ballet and whatnot! For ten days she trained me to be the lord of dance. I was going to be the greatest Elmo ever. This was to be his finest moment. I was already hearing Mr. Hooper dialing my number off in the distance to ask me to reprise the role permanently.

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I rode a flying carpet to the birthday party; I was higher than a kite on what I had in store for the kids. I was going to make Avatar look like Steamboat Willie!

View from the inside

Sadly, my hopes and dreams all came crashing down like the first tower once I put the mask on. The helmet does not stay in place, which makes seeing straight out of it impossible. It sort of bobbles about until it rests on the back of your head. To spectators it seems as if Elmo is walking tall and full of confidence, but the reality is the eye hole/mouthpiece is aimed at the floor, so the poor sap inside the costume can't see anything aside from a 10" x 4" rectangle of what is directly in front of their feet. YOU CAN'T DANCE LIKE THAT! How was I supposed to do my ode to Dan Gezmer???

"I can't do it," I told my sister. "I can't go out there."

"What are you talking about?" She asked.

"I'm not going out there."

"Are you nervous? They're one- and two-year-old kids."

"No, I can't see. I can't see anything!"

"I'll hold your hand and guide you."

"I NEED TO DANCE! I CAN'T DANCE WITH YOU HOLDING MY HAND!"

"You don't need to dance, just go out and wave for ten minutes and that's it."

"I'm not doing it. That's not the type of performance I had planned."

"My son thinks Elmo is coming! What am I supposed to tell him?"

"Tell him Elmo is dead. Tell him Elmo is stuck in traffic. Don't telling him anything—he's one, he doesn't even speak English yet!"

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"Chris! You promised to do this!"

"I didn't know I was going to be flying blind. What's worse? No Elmo? Or a crappy Elmo performance?"

"IT'S NOT A PERFORMANCE! I DON'T NEED YOUR GODDAMN PERFORMANCE! WHY DO YOU ALWAYS NEED TO DANCE?!? YOU CAN'T DANCE! JUST GO OUT THERE AND WAVE."

"I won't do it," I told her.

I started to get undressed.

Then my brother-in-law came and talked to me. My brother-in-law is a cop. A cop… with a gun.

A few minutes later I was being led out onto the "dance" floor of the dining hall flanked by my sister on one side and my brother-in-law on the other, each holding my hand. I heard screaming children all around me but I couldn't see any of them. I didn't know if they were happy or sad to see me. I could only imagine them looking on in disappointment, wondering why I wasn't dancing.

I was guided to a chair and told to sit. For the next hour I held various small humans for photographs and waved blindly at cameras I couldn't see. I did my best to turn towards the red-eye reduction lights that were beaming into my mouth hole. The funniest thing about it all was every time someone said, "CHEESE!" I'd smile as if they could see me.

The children poked and prodded at me. Some punched me in my genitals. Such a sad end for someone who dreamt of studying at Julliard for ten years.

The worst suffering of them all, you ask? My son hates posing with people in costumes. Last year he lost his mind in front of the Easter Bunny. Elmo was no different. He was petrified. He wouldn't stop screaming and crying. After I was led back to the changing room my wife came in with my boy and said, "Take off the mask, show him. See! It's just Daddy inside." His stare didn't calm—it worsened. He looked at me as the monster, the monster within.

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A week has past and he hasn't stopped looking at me that way.

I fear he never will. The horror, the horror…

Previously - How I Spent My Tampa Vacation

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com or twitter.com/Nieratko