John Wayne Gacy made it bad, with his creep factor of dressing like a clown for kids in the hospital when he was raping and killing men and boys in his home and burying them in the basement. And the creep carried on when he continued to paint pictures of himself in full clown garb and sell them from his jail cell.
|Pogo the creepy ass clown|
|ok, the movie was bad, but Tim Curry is great.|
From then on, clowns and I had no business together. None at all.
My friends know this about me. Barb and Bill got Geoff and I a book for Christmas a couple of years ago, full of creepy clown photographs. I can only flip through so much of it at a time, without getting the heebie jeebies. They think it's funny to freak me out. They are kind of jerks. ;)
So, why am I talking about clowns? Cause this weird thing happened to me today. I had to got to the big city of Toronto for a meeting today. Val, who I work with, and I went up together. We take the Go train most of the way, but it means a relatively short walk from Union Station to the office and then a walk from the office back to the train station. Not a big deal, we can usually do it about 10 minutes or so.
So, we finish our meeting today in record time, and end up being able to catch an earlier train. Val and I are hoofing it down the street, chatting as we walk, but making good time. It's a route we have taken a bunch of times before, we know it well. It's bright and sunshiney, and there are lots of people out and about. It's the business section of Toronto, so there are suits and skirts everywhere.
Now, when we walk on the street, I really try to avoid walking on the grates. You know, the big ones that the subway runs under? I am always afraid that I am going to crash through and die a horrible death (irrational fear #21). Sometimes though, I will force myself to walk on the grates, to try and prove that it is irrational. Today was one of those days.
So, along we walk, her on the sidewalk, cobblestone and all, and me on the grates. I didn't wear heels today, so I wasn't afraid of my heel slipping through and tripping me up. I was watching where I was stepping though, and didn't lift my eyes off the sidewalk very often.
So, then I saw something. In one of the grates.
It was purple, with a gold trim. It was ruffly, like a big pouffy clown collar. It was up near the top of the grate, and for all intents and purposes, it looked like a clown's upper back, with it's head just out of view.
Remember Pennywise? He lived in the sewer. No shit.
I know that there wasn't a clown in the grate. I know that. I KNOW that. But I didn't look back, because I didn't want to see the white gloved fingers coming though.
I stopped walking on grates after that. I stopped watching the sidewalk. I don't know what was really down there. I don't want to know.
All I do know is that I don't like clowns.
Rosie N. Grey
The N stands for "no clown is a good clown."