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• Clowning around is obviously just plain creepy

It sort of bugs me when people state the obvious. You know, someone will yawn and then say, “I’m tired,” or someone will have half a rib bone protruding from their mouth and announce that they are really hungry. It’s even worse when they point out something about you that is apparent, like saying, “Oh, it appears you’ve spilled soup on your shirt” while they poke at a chili stain the size of a Frisbee. I read something the other day that sort of struck me as obvious, clearly obvious, if that isn’t too redundant. Children don’t like clowns and even older kids are scared of them. No kidding? Wow, thanks Captain Obvious.

The University of Sheffield took a little poll to see what kind of décor the inside of a children’s ward at the hospital should have. They interviewed 250 children and every freaking one of them between the ages of four and 16 disliked clowns. Penny Curtis, one of the researchers, felt adults often make assumptions about what children enjoy and these assumptions are frequently wrong. “We found that clowns are universally disliked by children. Some found them quite frightening and unknowable.”

See, that last statement strikes me as completely obvious. Of course kids hate clowns. Piss, I think most adults hate them, too. The problem is that clowns are still around ... and they, for some reason, assume everyone loves them. Well, we really don’t. Look, I’m sorry if this is disturbing news to clowns everywhere, but let’s face it, y’all are freaky. I’m sorry if this makes the clowns out there sad. I’m sorry if they have to repaint the damned mouth on their face so it looks like a frown now and then paint little fake tear drops on their cheeks. That’s really nothing compared to the shit they’ve put me through all these years.

My first clown experience was when I was about six years old. We went to the circus, which as everyone knows, is generally full of clowns. I suppose I sort of enjoyed them at first, what with their big floppy shoes and their apparent desire to do anything for a laugh. They would chase each other, throw pretend buckets of water on the audience, get in and out of really tiny cars, you know, all the shit clowns pretty much do every time you see them. I wasn’t really laughing, but they seemed sort of okay at a distance.

As they began to climb into the audience and play grabass with all the children, they suddenly didn’t seem okay anymore. They were like creepy, heartless marauders who were coming after me. I didn’t know what they wanted. Hells bells, does anyone ever really know what a fucking clown wants? I was young and I assumed they had come to kill me. One of them gave me a piece of candy, but even that didn’t really calm me down. I only thank God I wasn’t forced into his conversion van in the parking lot.

I had made up my mind at the point that a clown was something to be feared, not enjoyed. Apparently, I kept this terror to myself. It didn’t seem like a big deal because I assumed that clowns were something I would encounter very seldom. By the time Halloween rolled around, I was aware my mom was making me some sort of costume. I would occasionally be asked to try on some pants and a puffy shirt. I didn’t know what my little dress-up outfit was going to be and I didn’t much care. I was aware that I was going to get candy no matter how bad my costume was.

When Halloween evening finally rolled around, I began putting on the stupid-assed outfit that my mom handed me. I assumed she was just a very poor seamstress. The pants were baggy and had all different kinds of fabric sewn together. The shirt was all puffy and striped and had a collar that can only be described as ridiculously big. I was a little kid, so I really didn’t understand the terror that lay ahead.

Mom then sat me on a chair and began putting all sort of crazy makeup on my face. Maybe I was going to look like Spiderman when she was done, or Batman maybe ... hell, even Robin would have been okay with me so long as there was candy involved. It seemed like she was really caking on the face paint, but I was nowhere near a mirror, so I just relaxed and anticipated the evening.

All of a sudden, things began to get creepy. I wasn’t sure why exactly, but even at such a young age, it became clear to me that something was amiss. Mom slid a shoe onto my foot that was obviously not the correct size. I began to look around the room frantically for more clues. Before I could blink, a bright orange wig was pulled over my head. Holy crap, it all became crystal clear, even before an enormous red foam nose was pushed into the middle of my face.

Mom lifted me from the chair and led me to a full-length mirror. It was horrible. That crazy woman had dressed me as a freaking clown. I had now become the thing I feared the most. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, terrorize myself, or terrorize others. Yeah, kids really don’t like clowns. Thanks for clearing that up you obvious bastards.