What To Do When You’re Attacked By Clowns

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Know your enemy [image in the public domain]

I’m not afraid of clowns.  I simply acknowledge the fact that they’re evil.  I have a recurring dream in which I’m being menaced by a clown in full clown regalia, really slowly, and no one tries to stop it.  I used to think that this was because either a) no one liked me, which I haven’t ruled out, or b) everyone else was too scared of the clown to try to help me, which may also be true.  Upon deeper reflection, however, I think it’s most likely just because no one knows what to do when clowns attack.  We’re all too busy planning for the zombie apocalypse to prepare a defense against the imminent threat posed by those jumbo-shod, red-nosed, smirking agents of evil.  Let’s face it:  the clown apocalypse is inevitable, isn’t it?

To save the world from that crimson-wigged, pasty-faced, baggy-trousered scourge, and also so my dream self will know what to do in the future, I took the time to analyze the most common battle-clown tactics and strategies.  I then devised countermeasures just as soon as I’d stopped screaming.  But not crying, because I wasn’t crying, I don’t care what you thought you saw.  Because I am heroic and selfless, and because next time I’m dreaming about clowns I’d like you to get off your duff and do something about it, I will now share these plans with you so that we can work together when the clowns decide that the moment is ripe for their attack.  For heaven’s sake, don’t share this with the clowns.  In fact, you should make sure that no clowns are around while you’re reading this.  Did you check behind you?  Clowns love to sneak up from behind.  There could be a clown lurking behind you right this very second.  Go on, check.  I’ll wait.

A moment of silence, please, for the ones who discovered the clowns behind them just that little bit too late.

Okay:  for the survivors, here’s what I’ve learned.  Clowns are crafty, scary not scary but nefarious, terrifying not terrifying but depraved, and evil.  Really, really evil.  But they do have weaknesses, and they can be fought.  The two most effective methods of defense against clowns target the following weaknesses:

 1.  The tiny clown car

As we all know, clowns travel in packs, and they use those ridiculously small cars to fit dozens of clowns into an area designed to accommodate maybe two people.  They do this by manipulating the subatomic particles in their bodies into acting like they’re just empty space, thus bypassing the laws of physics and enabling the clowns to all occupy the same seat and thereby squeeze twenty clowns into a teeny, tiny car.

The manipulation of subatomic particles is a delicate process and requires perfect concentration.  Disrupt that concentration at a crucial moment, for instance just after the clown car narrowly avoids a humorous obstacle, and the entire pack of clowns will implode.  And possibly start a new universe, but no plan is perfect.

For maximum disruption, I recommend placing a small clown doll in the path of the car.  The clowns will become confused, thinking it’s an actual clown, and will believe it’s time to leave the car before they’re ready.  The clowns will then panic, lose concentration, and implode, with any luck taking the doll with them.  Finally, a use for Clown Barbie.

2.  The ridiculously oversized shoes

I know, you thought I was going to say the pasty white makeup. If you wash off the makeup, the clown will lose its powers, right?  The truth is, while I treasure the thought of a clown getting blasted in the face with a pressure hose, it turns out that underneath the makeup is just more makeup; you’ll never get through all of it before the clown gets you with that plastic flower that they claim only squirts water, but actually coats you with a slow-acting venom that gradually turns you into one of their hapless minions, also known as mimes.  Why do you think mimes are always acting like they’re trapped in things?  Poor devils.

No, if you can’t get the clown car, what you want to go for is the shoes.  Contrary to popular belief, clowns don’t have big feet.  Their oversized shoes are where they put the mind-control devices that keep everyone from perceiving them as a threat.  These devices have gotten so good that, not only do we not run away in terror at the very sight of them, we actually laugh, clap, and pay them money for the privilege of infiltrating our society.

The mind-control devices don’t work on children, though, which is why children start crying and screaming when they see clowns.  What you want to do if the clowns make it out of the car is this:  find out what the latest overpriced toy fad is, grab the nearest kid, and tell him there’s a furby/razor scooter/Tickle-Me-Elmo in the clowns’ shoes.  A kid’s greed will always outweigh his fear, which is how so many parents get their kids to go to the dentist.  Once the kids tear into the shoes, the mind control devices will go offline and the adults can recognize the threat and take action.  They won’t need to, though, because the children will have torn the clowns to shreds by that point looking for the toy.  I almost feel sorry for the freaky-wigged creeps.  Hey, I said almost.

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The nose houses the inter-clown communication system.  If you can, pull it off and leave it in a bar on Karaoke Night [image in the public domain]

So when the time comes and the clowns attack, make sure you’ve laid in a stock of clown dolls and rugrats.  In fact, you might want to start training your children right away to attack any clowns they meet, just so you’re ready when the time comes.  Oh, and make sure you film your kids when they come across a clown and go all Manchurian Candidate.  And upload the videos to YouTube.  I like to fall asleep to the sound of clowns wailing in agony.  Hey, we’ve all got our bedtime rituals!

This post has been brought to you by the good people at Charlie Cottrell’s blog (Sketches From Memory), who wanted a post about clowns.  Chuck, don’t say I never did nothing for you.  And let me know how that clown gladiatorial arena‘s coming.  Now that’s entertainment!

Why I Got Nothing Done Today, Told In The Style Of A Lying 8-Yr-Old

[Editor’s note:  Now with pirates!]

 

I really tried to take out the trash, I swear, just like I was supposed to.  But, see, right when I was emptying the trashcan into the bag, these pirates came in and just started, like, attacking the trash.  Every time I tried to throw something away, they would spear it, you know, with their swords, until their swords were all full of empty Lean Cuisine cartons and that old candy bar you said I shouldn’t eat.  Which I didn’t.  And then when I went to throw out the rest of the trash, some of the pirates snuck in front of me and hid all the rest of the trashcans so the other pirates wouldn’t find them, and I was so mad.  And then, and then, when I finally got everything in the trash bag and I was trying–no, really, I was!–to throw out the trash bag, the pirates, like, made me walk the plank!  And then while I was swimming back, they took all the trash and put it back in the trashcans, and they took all the trash bags with them so I couldn’t throw anything out, I swear, they really did.  It wasn’t my fault, you know, ’cause I could have fought the pirates if you hadn’t have took away my sword after Halloween.

Then I tried to clean the bathroom, ’cause I felt so bad about not being able to take out the trash.  And I turned on the faucet in the tub to, you know, get lots of water for the cleaning, and then, then this mermaid came out of the faucet and started splashing around in the water.  And she was getting water, you know, everywhere and I couldn’t get her to stop ’cause I don’t speak giant fish lady.  I tried, really, I did, but she only giggled and splashed even more, so I turned off the faucet and she just, you know, swam down the drain, and that’s why there’s water all over the bathroom.  It wasn’t my fault.  I didn’t know there was a mermaid in the faucet, I mean, there never was before. 

So then I was, you know, gonna vacuum the rugs.  But then, see, this monster came in ’cause it heard the vacuum, right, and it thought the vacuum was growling at it.  So the monster was trying to fight the vacuum, and every time I tried to push the vacuum onto one of the rugs, the monster would rush at me, and I had to run away.  And then, see, when I ran upstairs, the vacuum followed me, ’cause it was scared, and then the monster, you know, the monster followed the vacuum.  So then the vacuum and I tricked the monster into getting in the closet, and then we shut it in and stayed real quiet until it fell asleep.  But we couldn’t, you know, do any more vacuuming, ’cause then the monster would wake up.  I really tried, but the monster messed everything up, you know,  and anyway you should stop yelling ’cause I’m pretty sure it’s still up there.

 

Cripple Barbie

this is a picture of my Barbie doll

Picture of a Barbie doll (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was playing with a friend’s kid the other day.  She’s awesome and smart and cute and funny, but she likes to play with Barbies.  She’s like I was at her age, though; she likes to shave their heads and pull off their arms and leave them lying naked and mutilated all around the house, so that’s all right.  She also likes to dress up Ken in Barbie’s clothes (which will only go on him if you leave them unbuttoned, if you’re curious), which is a refinement of the art that was lost on the pre-teen Little Blind Girl.  I was impressed.

She also likes to use props meant for other games and appropriate them for Barbie.  One of the props she reassigned this time around was a wheelchair; Barbie had gotten in a car accident driving her convertible after taking her “evening soothers” (don’t ask) and had to trade in four wheels for two and kick it in a wheelchair for a while.  This was fine until she got to her Dream House…and the wheelchair wouldn’t go in the door.

That’s right:  Barbie’s Dream House is not handicapped-accessible.  The imperfectly abled may not pass the threshold of Barbie’s home.  Gimps and cripples must sleep outside.  I was appalled at this message of intolerance and indifference to suffering that surrounds our children, insidiously infiltrating their still-forming minds and imparting a lasting disregard for the rights of others. We must stand up against this atrocity!  Well, not Barbie, because she’s now enfeebled, but the rest of us must stand up!

And then I remembered that, if Barbie were a real person, her height would be 7’2, her weight would be 101 pounds, her bust would be 39FF, and both her head and her waist would be 19″ around, and I was like, screw it.  Barbie can gimp it on the streets.  I’m done wheeling her bony butt around.  How’s that for a life lesson?