Open mouth. Insert clown shoe.


On a date fifteen years ago we wandered through the art gallery and stumbled across painted portraits of clowns. Big nosed, painted, crazy haired clowns. Sad clowns. Happy clowns. Clowns with frowns.

I proceeded on a five-minute rant about why anyone would want a painting of a clown. I loudly proclaimed my contempt for anyone that would buy these paintings. The remaining date was oddly awkward.

I couldn’t figure out why till I dropped her off and her father invited me in for a drink. In his den where thirteen of the same painted clown portraits.

So tell meĀ  – why do you hate clowns? Why do they scare you? Who are the scary clowns in your life?

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