I will be the first person to admit that I have some pretty irrational fears. I freak right out when I see an insect with more than six legs, the smell and texture of bananas give me the willies, and I have nightmares about being left alone with babies or old people. Is there a valid, logical explanation for any of those reactions? Nope. Not even a little bit. They’re stupid, irrational fears that I just can’t shake, and I acknowledge that. However, I have another supposedly “irrational” fear that I refuse to dismiss so easily. What is that fear, you ask? Oh, you’re not asking? You already know since you read the title? Tough titties, I’m saying it anyways. CLOWNS. I’m terrified of clowns. As I’m sure anyone who shares my fear (called coulrophobia, if you feel like being fancy) will surely know, admitting that you’re afraid of clowns is somewhat socially acceptable, but still pretty embarrassing. “They’re just people!” after all, and “Their purpose is to make us laugh!” What’s so scary about that? SO MANY THINGS. So. Many. Things. Don’t believe me? You will soon.
Like all great things, my fear of clowns has an origin story. Is it as badass as Wolverine’s? No. But it’s physically impossible for anyone to have an origin story as badass as his so that’s to be expected. Anyways, let’s begin. The year was 1997 (give or take 2 years). The location? A grocery store. I was strapped into one of those germ-coated metal buggies while my lovely mother shopped for Dunkaroos and other traditional 90s fare. To this day I’m unsure of the occasion, but for some reason a celebration was taking place in the store. There were balloons and free samples; the atmosphere was joyful. Except for one dark blemish on the face of the festivities: a clown. My mother and I first encountered this demonic creature upon entering the store, and lil tater-tot me was having NONE of it and so began to cry. I have an image of this particular clown scorched into my brain, and it still chills me to the bone. He was one of those particularly frightening clowns that aren’t in full makeup but are still wearing enough to look unusual, kind of like a mentally unstable homeless person who bought the wrong shade of foundation. Being the protective Mama Bear that she is, my mum told the guy to hop off since clearly I was not a fan of his tomfoolery. He made one of those sad faces that clowns make and skulked away. Thinking that was the end of it, I stopped crying and we proceeded to shop unassumingly until BOOM, Mr. Clown popped out from behind a display in one of the aisles. Naturally, I was pants-shittingly terrified and had a very loud, very public meltdown. My mum proceeded to ream the guy out for following us after she had very explicitly told him not to, and he replied that he had just wanted to make me laugh. Seriously, buddy? You were trying to make me “laugh”? WHO THE FUCK MAKES SOMEONE LAUGH BY JUMPING OUT FROM BEHIND SOMETHING AND TAKING THEM OFF GUARD? SERIOUSLY, WHO? I don’t remember what happened next, but I like to think that my mum roundhouse kicked that circus freak in the face because that’s the kind of awesome lady she is. NO ONE messes with her bebes.
That fateful incident ignited a deep fear in me, and that fear just grew and grew. I had occasional panic attacks while watching the Big Comfy Couch. I had to skip birthday parties. I couldn’t look at pictures of Pamela Anderson without screaming and covering my eyes. It was crippling. The worst part of it all was that people didn’t understand why I was so afraid. I felt like a freak. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to the very important understanding that I’m no freak. CLOWNS are the freaks. When you break it down, there are so many aspects of their existence that are downright weird. First and foremost, why must they disguise themselves? No one wears makeup that thick and wigs that distracting unless they’re hiding something. You know what other people use those sort of tactics to disguise themselves? Criminals. And the Kardashians, but that’s a topic for another time. If someone is wearing a disguise, chances are there’s a good reason for it, and as far as clowns are concerned I do NOT want to find out what that reason is. Secondly, their shoes. Why so big? I’m betting it’s so that they can store their weapons in a convenient but inconspicuous place. I’ve never come into contact with a clown’s shoes, but I bet if I did I’d find a mace or a revolver or nunchakus. And then there’s their cars. How do so many of them fit into such a small space if not for shapeshifting abilities? The implications of this are horrifying; they could be anything, any time, anywhere and we would have no idea. SEE HOW MUCH POWER THEY POSSESS? How is that not terrifying? When you combine all of these things with the fact that it is literally clowns’ jobs to entertain and delight, thus distracting the general populus from their evil plots, it becomes clear that they’re up to no good. Before we know it, those plastic flowers will be squirting out hydrochloric acid and they’ll be handing out balloons filled with potent carbon monoxide gas. We must stop them while we still can. We can’t allow a clownpocalypse, people, WE JUST CAN’T.
…Okay, after rereading that last paragraph I’m starting to question my sanity a little bit, but I still believe in the ideas at the very core of my reasoning. With all of these undeniable factors at play, I don’t think anyone can truly say that there’s nothing menacing about clowns. I may have a traumatic childhood experience to blame for my coulrophobia, but the fact that so many people share in my terror despite lacking a concrete reason is kind of a red flag. There’s definitely something fishy here. Perhaps it’s one of those big plastic fish that some clowns keep in their pants as a part of their shtick, or perhaps it’s something more. I’ll leave that judgment up to you. But for those of you who still believe that clowns are just harmless entertainment, I have two final things to say: 1) Being afraid of clowns is totally rational, so y’all need to stop judging us for it. 2) If a clown kidnaps you in your sleep and fashions your skin into a jacket, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. SLEEP WELL, FOLKS.
