Fuck Clowns

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A few nights ago, I was dialing the suicide hotline as Cam Newton was partially decapitated, when my idiot roommate bursts through the door acting crazy.

“Siblings,” he says in exasperation after the 20-foot walk from the elevator.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this. There are clowns in Carolina trying to murder people. Trying to murder people in the fucking woods. Machete clowns! It’s like a fucking Eli Roth movie man holy shit.”

Can I believe that clowns have the capacity to kill? Honestly, I can’t believe he, or anyone else, is surprised in the slightest by this. We live in a world largely driven by superficial success — fast cars, big houses, expensive degrees, and the advancement of plastic surgery morphing our species closer and closer to breathing Barbie and Ken dolls. We’ve got neurosurgeons buying their teenage daughters fake tits so TFM commenters can jerk off to their Instagram posts. The average American is nearly $30k in credit card debt to keep up with the Joneses, and more total funds are spent domestically on hair care than the entire GDP of small nations. We are, without a doubt, a country that cares deeply about our surface interactions.

So, with that in mind, I have always been fascinated, and rightly terrified to no end, by the grown man that decides to cover himself in cartoonish makeup and humiliate himself for the world to see. Now, at least in the case of other masochistic and deeply disturbed individuals without shame, such as porn stars and Rob Lowe in the Direct TV commercials, a few loads to the face and/or reminding everyone your precipitous career decline can come with a great deal of compensation. No pun intended.

But this is not the case for a clown. The nameless, faceless, freaks sporting polka dotted overalls, fire crotched hair, and your grandmother’s eye shadow are paid similarly to a disgraced TFM freelancer, damning themselves to an endless professional life of humiliation. You’re taking assorted objects to the face, scaring the fuck out of everyone that sees you, making absolutely no money, and spending a vast majority of your time with small children.

What is most troubling here is the actual psychology of a man willing to do this. First of all, you can’t possibly have a family, or at least you must hate them. How can you tell Mom and Dad, the people who cradled you in their arms as a baby imagining all the wonderful successes your life could bring, that you want to go to fucking clown college? And no, I don’t mean Arizona State. I mean literal clown college. How about trying to have a significant other? Hey baby, sorry I am going to be late for dinner. A four-year-old threw up all over me while attempting to slam my face with a shaving cream pie. See you soon! I just don’t see it.

So, in reality, what we have here is a group of largely nameless psychopaths who get some sort of bizarre satisfaction (I’m afraid it’s sexual…yeah definitely sexual) out of being the characters most people have nightmares about, spending far too much time with toddlers that already despise them like the plague of humanity that they are, and apparently now in attempting to lure people to their own death. This, to me at least, is a logical progression into a delirium that any grown man willing to do this must be suffering immensely from.

People of the Carolinas, and the rest of this great country, for too long have we allowed this clear threat to wander faceless amidst our family mandated birthday parties for cousins we didn’t know we had, scaring and scarring both children and adults alike with their red noses, Geisha makeup, and general self-loathing. The first clown I come across near a wooded area is getting a foot so far up his ass.

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