Another reason I love the Internet: Anti-Clown Validation
It’s official: Children hate clowns. A recent study that quizzed 250 children in a pediatric hospital ward found that all 250 of them were afraid of the various clown imagery that decorated the wing. As though terminal illness wasn’t enough. Penny Curtis, a professor who worked on the study, is quoted as saying “We found that clowns are universally disliked by children. Some found them quite frightening and unknowable.” So what is it about clowns that is so damn terrifying? We decided to find out. Hence, we’d like to present Best Week Ever’s Top 10 Things That Make Clowns Scary.
Click on over to BWE for a run down of their top 10, it’s worth a wee giggle.
Kids & Clowns = not always good. Poor wee darlin’s at the hospital.
Personally, I despise clowns. Mainly because we had a wonky babysitter when we were young who played such classic clown-horror-gems as “It” and “Poltergeist”. Needless to say, that babysitter didn’t last long once my parents got a whiff (thanks to reoccurring nightmares).
But there was one uber-stereotypical memory I have that SCARRED me, and solidified my lack of clown appreciation (although, strangely enough, I dig mimes and can tolerate jesters).
Place = my cuz’s birthday party. My aunt has like 3 cats– and cats being my kryptonite, I was forced to the porch during a particularly chilly Wisconsin winter at the tender age of 9 to avoid a raging asthma attack. Huddling in the corner, I watch as a battered astro-style MiniVan screeched into the driveway, narrowly missing my dad’s car. The driver got out, stumbled sideways, tossed his beer bottle, and plugged his red nose on his face.
Now, as i mentioned, I had never really been a fan of clowns before that… something about having to put on all that make-up to cover who they are in hopes of forcing people to laugh… it just didn’t seem right. Plus, they were never portrayed very nicely in my television sessions (tv was like a bible & text book all wrapped into one).
Well, the clown-man belched, pounded on his chest, forcing the air in his lungs to settle at a better (less-burpy) angle, and began his large-shoed march towards the porch like only a determined clown could.
Meanwhile, I’m still in the corner of the porch– as of yet unnoticed.
He rang the doorbell and took the moment to smell his pit (i kid you not). It’s at this time he noticed a fence-pole with a blond bowl haircut standing in the corner with eyes wide enough to soak the horror.
I could SEE the gears in his head churning as he retraced his steps– belching, bottle throwing, wreckless driving.
Leaning forward he simply pointed his over-stuffed gloved finger at me and glared. Thankfully he never said a word. The door opened with my aunt at the helm and he burst into “please the client” mode, leaving me on the porch absolutely petrified by the evil gleam in his eye.
Funny how stereotypical tv plots can actually REFLECT reality, right? I’ve never been quite the same after that.
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