Tuesday
12/14/03
Clowns. Clowns Are Bad.
Being the fan of rhetorical questions that I am… what the hell is it with clowns? No, more specifically, what the hell is it with people who enjoy clowns, think they’re amusing, and hire them to bug the bejesus out of those of us who know them for what they really are: demented, soul-stealing demons from the very last circle of hell? Or something like that. I may have some issues with clowns.
Anyway, it’s like this. The family and I went to our fave local bar/restaurant that has killer pizza (The Nanuet Hotel) to celebrate a good report card. As we were waiting for a table in the midst of the throngs of little people (kids, not midgets), teenage waitresses and fellow hungry people, we heard a rather alarming bang. As I looked around, I realized with a creeping sort of horror that it was a clown. Worse, a balloon-animal-making-clown. Did I mention that I hate clowns?
Actually, it may be a more of a distaste for up close and personal performers in general. Jugglers, magicians and mimes and the like. There’s just something creepy about people whose only goal in life is to bring delight and a sense of childlike wonderment to others. What’s the motivation behind all this non-conforming behavior? There can’t be any real money in wandering around, making balloon puppies and patting kids on the head. I think they’re all plotting something; I just haven’t figured out what yet.
Anyway, as luck would have it, the restaurant was busy enough that the clown circulated here and there but never caught our scent. Later, as we made our balloon-free escape to the car with doggie bags in hand, I took the opportunity to explain the dangers of clowns to the boys. I told them, in my most authoritative tone, to never make eye contact with a clown, because that’s how they steal your soul.
I thought it went over rather well, but all I got for my troubles was a sharp poke in the ribs from my Lovely Bride and an admonition that I would frighten the tots. On the ride home, with ribs still smarting, I consoled myself with the thought that even though being the Father and Family Protector can be a thankless job sometimes, somebody has to do it. No balloon-making purveyor of childlike whimsy is going to steal my kid’s souls if I have anything to say about it.
Did I mention that I hate clowns?
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Clowns. Clowns Are Bad.
Being the fan of rhetorical questions that I am… what the hell is it with clowns? No, more specifically, what the hell is it with people who enjoy clowns, think they’re amusing, and hire them to bug the bejesus out of those of us who know them for what they really are: demented, soul-stealing demons from the very last circle of hell? Or something like that. I may have some issues with clowns.
Anyway, it’s like this. The family and I went to our fave local bar/restaurant that has killer pizza (The Nanuet Hotel) to celebrate a good report card. As we were waiting for a table in the midst of the throngs of little people (kids, not midgets), teenage waitresses and fellow hungry people, we heard a rather alarming bang. As I looked around, I realized with a creeping sort of horror that it was a clown. Worse, a balloon-animal-making-clown. Did I mention that I hate clowns?
Actually, it may be a more of a distaste for up close and personal performers in general. Jugglers, magicians and mimes and the like. There’s just something creepy about people whose only goal in life is to bring delight and a sense of childlike wonderment to others. What’s the motivation behind all this non-conforming behavior? There can’t be any real money in wandering around, making balloon puppies and patting kids on the head. I think they’re all plotting something; I just haven’t figured out what yet.
Anyway, as luck would have it, the restaurant was busy enough that the clown circulated here and there but never caught our scent. Later, as we made our balloon-free escape to the car with doggie bags in hand, I took the opportunity to explain the dangers of clowns to the boys. I told them, in my most authoritative tone, to never make eye contact with a clown, because that’s how they steal your soul.
I thought it went over rather well, but all I got for my troubles was a sharp poke in the ribs from my Lovely Bride and an admonition that I would frighten the tots. On the ride home, with ribs still smarting, I consoled myself with the thought that even though being the Father and Family Protector can be a thankless job sometimes, somebody has to do it. No balloon-making purveyor of childlike whimsy is going to steal my kid’s souls if I have anything to say about it.
Did I mention that I hate clowns?
