Clown stole my pillow…
Tail end of the long weekend, and I’m unutterably depressed by the totally predictable international response to the whole phony evil-jews-club-adorable-baby-seals-on-the-high-sea thing. That’s my cue to witter on pointlessly for a while.
As I was skimming just under the surface of consciousness thing this morning, I dreamed a clown leaned in the bedroom door and stole my pillow.
Brrrrr. Not a nice wake-up call. Forget out-and-out coulrophobia — is there anybody on the planet who thinks clowns are the least little microscopic bit funny?
And if the answer is yes, and it’s you — can you try to explain it to me? Because I’m totally not getting it.
Huge shoes, monstrous facial features, golf pants and smacking each other around with giant hammers. Nope. Not getting it.
Also, jack-in-the-boxes. Did you have one? Did it make you laugh? Because mine scared the shit out of me when I was little.
Granted, I have an exaggerated startle response. Or, as my mother put it, I’m real goosey. But knowing when the thing was going to pop out of the deal wasn’t any help at all, I was still like, “aiiiii! The clown, it taunts me!”
I guess a touch of Pop-Goes-the-Weaselphobia is to be expected.