“I had a friend who was a clown. When he died, all his friends went to the funeral in one car” – Steven Wright
Clowns = Death
I don’t fear clowns. At least not the ones that aren’t out to murder me. Yet, I have the sneaking suspicion that they’re all out to murder me. Okay, so maybe I have a fear of clowns. What’s your point? Those of us who grew up at the time when infamous clown and serial killer John Wayne Gacey was in the headlines and Stephen King was jotting down the antics of Pennywise, generally shrug our shoulders, and attribute our relative intolerance of clowns to the object proof we have that sometimes clowns are indeed out to kill us, but is this enough of an explanation to merit the almost universal fear and loathing of them?
Given the past few decades of bad press…
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