Why Clowns Really Are Hell's Minions

The circus was in town, and my parents decided to take me to it.  Probably because they wanted to go out, and the circus is the only place where a 4-year-old, like myself (who was prone to fits of excitement due to the fact that I had new Batman underwear, and fits of rage due to the fact that Batman was on the rear where I couldn’t look down and see him) was socially acceptable.

At some point in every child’s life, they nurture the idea of running away with the circus.  And who can blame them?  The circus is like visual crack for kids.  Bright colors, fancy costumes, fun music, and those are just the realistic reasons.  Most kids just want to run away with the circus for one of two reasons.  Because their tiny imaginations have told them having a pet tiger would be the best thing ever, or, they saw Snoopy do it.

Mine was a combination of both.                 

As we walked into the big tent, my mind exploded with the possibilities.  You could literally watch my pupils dilate and my eyes glaze over at the sheer grandeur of it all, like the way you can watch a deer’s eyes do the same thing as it stares at an oncoming semi.  And, like the deer, I was blissfully unaware of the horror that was to come.

This particular circus, to say the least, was mediocre at best.  The trained tigers, that I so longed to keep as pets, performed nothing other than their uncanny ability to evacuate their bowels at the sound of the whip, and then sniff it.

The trapeze artist was a dirty woman.  And when I say dirty, I mean she looked like she hadn’t properly bathed in a while.  She was wearing a thong that gave her a major case of butt floss, and liked to go up and down the ladders to the trapeze platform a lot, so you got quite the show.  Good thing too, because we didn’t stay much longer after that, so at least we got our money’s worth.

It was at this point, between the bare bottom trapeze act and the main event, the clowns arrived.

Up until then, I’d never interacted with a clown.  They seemed like alright chaps.  They sure knew how to make everyone laugh.  That is, until they began their sweep of the audience, picking out random individuals to smack on the head with their rubber mallet.

I watched intently as they made their way through the crowd.  A slight feeling of panic began to stir inside my tiny chest.  What if they hit ME on the head!?

 

You could tell the clowns were running out of time to perform their little stunt, because they began to jog around the crowd instead of just walking.  Needless to say, this didn’t help with my mini panic attack.

Finally the clowns made it to our section of the crowd.  I remember mentally preparing myself for the pain of getting hit on the head that was sure to come.  I didn’t, however, prepare myself for the clowns avoiding me entirely, and hitting dad instead.

I lost it.  Instant hysterics broke out.

Me: They hit my daddy…………………..THEY HIT MY DADDY!  THEY HIT MY DADDY!  DAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDYYYYYY!

Dad: Sammy, daddy’s ok, look!  I’m fine.

Me: THEY!  HIT!  MY!  DAAAAAAAADDDDDDDYYYYYYY!

At this point mom also tried to calm me down, because even though an average child’s behavior is socially acceptable at these sorts of establishments, I was quite obviously, not behaving like an average child.

Mom: Daddy’s ok Sammy.  It wasn’t real.  It was pretend.

There was no consoling my broken spirit.

It was then that the clowns decided to do their share in helping to calm me down.  They all walked over to me slowly, like a pack of wolves hunting their prey.

My crying increased tenfold.

They danced around and did their little clown things to cheer me up.  It didn’t work.  The last clown resorted to the last trick in his repertoire, the squirting flower, which he squirted directly in my face.

The cold water on my face and in my eyes shocked me enough to stop my crying momentarily.  A small convulsion trickled through my body as if I’d had a stroke, and not only did I start crying again, but this time, my world was over.

Needless to say, mom and dad decided it was time to leave.

It was from then on my parents took me to fairs, and not circuses.  Fairs have ponies, which are fun and cute.  Fairs don’t have clowns.

It was also after that circus, that clowns terrified me.  I was no longer able to watch The Brave Little Toaster without running from the room screaming during Toaster’s nightmare sequence.

Life as I knew it, would never be the same.

The Book That Started It All *UPDATE*

All through my life I've been a very outspoken person, and my eight year old self wasn't any different. As a kid, I loved to spend time with my friends playing games in the house, or, my favorite, playing "imagination" outside.

My friends, my younger brother (who's two years younger than I am) and I always had a fun time with whatever we were doing, well, as long as I was in charge. Because, let's face it, my eight year old brain had much superior ideas for games to play than my mediocre friends could ever come up with.

Our games were rigorously scheduled, and when playing pretend, roles were assigned by me. And I was NOT amused with any discrepancies in how I thought these games should go.

When we play Power Rangers, I am always the red ranger.  And if you're the Pink Ranger, you had better look, act and sound just like Kimberly, including her gymnastic and fighting abilities, or you WOULD feel my eight year old wrath, which usually consisted of me feigning injuries or deciding the game was over.

How I got said injuries varied, and I usually did my best to make sure these injuries stayed consistent with the game we were playing. If we were playing Jurassic Park, for example, my twisted ankle was conveniently caused by running for my life from the friend assigned to play the velociraptor.

This method rarely worked the way my mind told me it would, and usually ended in my friends doing something I found less entertaining, such as playing video games with Joel (little brother). Occasionally, however, my twisted ankle (or whatever injury came to my mind at the time, though a twisted ankle was most common) would distract my friends long enough for me to regain control of the situation. Though the former outcome was more common.

It was usually at this time that my brother, being the insanely ingenious public relations person he's been since birth, after numbing our friends' minds to the pain inflicted by my dictatorship, would sneak past me in the living room sulking, and tell my parents about the nightmarish demon child I had once again become.

My dad and mom would then convene to their bedroom, once again slipping past me and my sullen state (even though their bedroom is directly in the line of view of the couch I had planted myself on), to discuss the proper form of punishment to place on my head. It was once they had chosen the same punishment they always chose for this situation, that I was called into the room. This is how the typical conversation went:

Dad: "Sammy, have you been bossing your friends around again?"

Somewhere deep inside I could tell by the look on his face that he was not amused to have to have one of these "little chats" again.

Me: "No. They just wouldn't listen to me."

Dad: "Well why wouldn't they listen to you?"

He always fished for the answers he wanted this way, with probing questions about my true intentions. But I wasn't going to go down without a fight. I was a genius, a genius who's intellect had no match.

Me: "Because my ideas were really good and we were playing pretend and all they wanted to do was play video games with Joel even though I was making everyone have fun. But my games are more fun."

Dad: "So you were telling them what to do."

And this was the point where dad would fold his arms across his chest with the typical, parental, “I-thought-so” look plastered all over his face. But I was not going to let this go. I would win!

Me: "No! They just weren't listening to me!"

I had already lost. I had resorted to reusing my opening argument, which, by this point, also became my closing argument.

Mom: "I think it's time for Sammy's Special Day, don't you daddy?"

Me: "NO!"

It was usually here, accompanying the "NO!", that I would stare blankly at my mom as if to say "Et tu?" But she too, would be wearing yet another typical, parental expression that I like to call the “I'm-in-control” expression.

Dad: "Yeah, I think that's a good idea."

Me: *now crying hysterically* "NOOOO!"

All hope was lost.

But, no matter how many tears my little eyes shed, the book was brought out anyway.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Sammy's Special Day, it's an adorable little children's book about a little fox named Sammy. Sammy's friend, Thumpity the rabbit comes over for a play date. Little does Thumpity know, that Sammy doesn't intend to share any of his toys, chairs, crayons, etc. with the homely little rabbit.

So Sammy's mom sends Sammy to time-out in his room where he's forced to watch Thumpity and Sammy's mom color pictures (with Sammy's crayons nonetheless) together. Sammy soon gets a miraculous revelation about the joys of sharing, blah blah blah, and is released from time-out so the two can play together. The end.

In retrospect, why a rabbit and a fox are even playing together in the first place is beyond me. Why mama rabbit and mama fox are housewife, best friends and not sworn mortal enemies due to the fact that rabbit stew is a favorite meal among foxes is another conundrum to my current mental knowledge. But I digress.

After reading this book (usually multiple times because I was confined to my room with nothing else to do other than read it, and because I hadn't figured out that when you've got time out in your room you still have access to your toys) my dad would finally make an appearance in my room.

Dad: "Have you learned your lesson?"

Instant tears would begin streaming down my face at some point during this particular "fishing" question.

Me: "Ye...ye...YEEEESSSS!"

Dad: "Ok. Now I want you to go apologize to your brother and your friends, and then I want you to sit down and let them play video games until they invite you to play with them."

As if my giant, eight year old pride wasn't bruised enough already by having been sent to my room in front of all my friends (who conveniently always seemed to be out having a snack at the exact moment I was banished and could therefore witness the entire thing), but now I had to go issue a verbal apology AND play the video games that had just ruined my perfect rendition of Jurassic Park!

I'd slump my way across the hall to Joel's room, wiping tears and snot from my face to regain any semblance of dignity. I'd knock on the door and enter.  Then, as quietly as possible, while still being able to be heard, I'd mumble out some form of apology for the rein of terror I'd unleashed earlier.

My friends never said anything.  Whether it was due to their absorption in the video game, their embarrassment for my situation, or simply the fact that they were trying to contain their uncontrollable laughter because my brother had more than likely told them the frequency of this situation, I will never know.

I'd flop down on the floor, ignoring the look of total superiority my little brother wore on his face like an Olympic gold medal, and watched my friends joyfully playing what instantly became my new favorite video game (god bless my A.D.D. eight year old mind).

As soon as an opportunity presented itself to join in the festivities, I would grab a controller, and the vicious cycle would repeat itself.

These reading of Sammy's Special Day were quite frequent in my childhood, and also made cameo appearances in my adolescence.

By the time I got to college, and would bring my friends home for a weekend, my parents would only have to mention "the book" for me to tune up my attitude.

To this day I'm still haunted by that book.

Buy Sammy's Special Day on Amazon