Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Cranberry the Clown

My parents are well meaning people.  They work with children every day and are very good at what they do.  However, when it comes to understanding what my "friends" and I were capable of as tiny lumplings, they grossly underestimated just how horrible we could be. 

First off, my parents never said "invite your friends to your birthday!"  They (or at least my mother...  My father probably didn't really care who the Hell we brought to the house) thought it may make people in my class feel unwanted or left out if they were not invited to every single one of my birthday parties.  Well... They wouldn't have been wanted and they would have been left out, but these children were invited anyway.  Maybe my mother thought that I didn't have any friends.  I don't really know.

Either way, I invited my entire class to my birthday parties.  One party in particular managed to end this string of awesome, themed parties where everyone was invited.  Up until this party, we had done Trolls themed parties, zombie parties...  A lot of Halloween parties (even though my birthday is in November.  Shut up.)

Well, one birthday, my mother decided to get me a clown.  I was terrified of clowns for many years.  I had lived with a very nice painting of a clown and his puppy over my bed.  This picture, as a small child, did not bother me... but I was very afraid of the dark.  My nanny (old evil woman) decided to leave me in the pitch black darkness, even though I cried when she did it, and even my eight shades of crazy sister told her not to.

So I developed a fear of clowns because that clown would be the last thing I would see before I could see NOTHING.

And my mom decided to get me a clown for my birthday party.  I liked magic and magicians, and this clown, "Cranberry" did tricks.  My mother decided that she was like a magician with face paint.

My classmates (read: makeshift friends) and a few actual friends who happened to be there assisted in ripping this woman apart.  Cranberry attempted everything she could to keep us little bastards entertained, but to no avail.  We were much more entertained by ruining her life.

"I know how to do THIS trick!!  SEE???" we screeched and screamed.
"This is STUPID."  "Clowns are UGLY."  We were awful.  We tore through her entire act and rampaged her cute little set up.  We didn't let her get a word in before she burst into tears and ran off.

Now, I can safely say that I felt bad about this.  Like many young Nazis back in WWII, I went along with the others, even though I knew it was wrong, for fear of being caught in the line of fire myself.  I still feel awful.  However, it at least got me over my fear of clowns (that had no right being there in the first place).  Now I know, if a clown ever tries to attack me, I can just unleash a herd of small children and make him or her cry.

I'm fairly certain that this was her:

For the love of poop, hire this woman.  If nothing else, so I can feel like I somehow made up for that night.  

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