Here’s dirty secret. I once dated a clown. Now in my defense, I didn’t know he was gaga about greasepaint when I accepted his dinner invitation. He told me that he worked at a Children’s Hospital—it was only later that I found out he was the Resident Clown on Call. Like many people, I have a strong visceral reaction to these joking jesters with rubber chicken fetishes. They scare the shit out of me. Individually, bulbous noses, baggy pants, and brightly colored striped socks may seem innocuous, if slightly bizarre, but put them all together and you’ve got the makings of a horror show. As someone once said, “There are two kinds of people in this world: those who hate or fear circus clowns and those who are circus clowns.”
But back to the date. He was perfectly pleasant, in a Future Farmers of America kind of way, and the conversation was just what you’d expect. His opening gambit was “What’s your favorite song from Mama Mia?," which then led into a spirited discussion of the effect of bot flies on the brain. I could go on, but you can connect the polka dots. No sparks or sparkling bon mots. By the time the salads arrived, he was waxing rapturously about his love affair with the dulcimer. I decided that a double scotch with a xanax chaser would get me through yet another episode of As the World Spurns. At the end of the evening, I evaded a kiss on the cheek, declined his invitation to go back to his apartment to listen to his original recordings of Edith Piaf and peeled out of the parking lot. (Word to the Wise: always, always take your own car).
I had forgotten all about him until a week later when he called to say that he had a present for me and asked if he could he drop if off on his way home from work. Ok, I’ll admit it, I’m a gift whore so I said sure, but warned him that I had to leave soon. Ten minutes later, I opened the door and discovered “Chocko” the clown. I did what any sane person would do: screamed and slammed the door; unfortunately I was unaware of just how effective those big ugly shoes can be as blocking devices. He apologized for the scare, explained his real job, and handed me a small gift-wrapped box. His parting words were: “Call me after you watch this.”
I peered through the peephole to see if he had a posse of 20 other clowns crammed into his Pinto and then gingerly tore off the balloon embossed paper. What did I find? A DVD of Clown Porn! I guess that Chocko was promoting sex-positive clown eroticism for Humpy, Jumbo and Kinky and wanted to spread the love.
I knew that if I watched any part of it, I’d be scarred for life. Reading the liner notes just confirmed my worst fears. In the seedy world of clown porn, there’s a lot more that goes on than juggling and pie throwing. Honking or horn blowing heralds an orgasm, circus music plays in the background, and clownsomes are standard. I put down the DVD but couldn’t stop my mind from racing: Do clowns tie their genitals into animal shapes? (Look, now it’s a dick and shazam; now it’s a duck.) Do they shoot confetti out of their cannon when they come? And when the fright wigs come off and lights dim, are the stars still panting on the outside but crying on the inside?
A furtive google search confirmed that yes; there is subculture of clown porn actors and aficionados. One of the leading figures in the clown-dom category is “Ouchy”, whose "Nice to Beat You"expertise includes his evil clown act, complete with bondage, hot wax and genital straight razor shaving. He brings new meaning to slapstick.
The practice of “clowning” has grown to such proportions that there is now a Stop Clown Porn Now organization, complete with website (stopclownpornnow.org). This grassroots campaign is on a mission to stop the clownsploitation “of the power of the clown archetype.” Worse, the degradation of clowns is likely to lead to the increase chance that “a legitimate clown will be abused by a wrong-headed clown parpaphiliac.”
The group is also working hard to stem the tide of non-clown actors usurping the work of true professionals. Bogus Bozos you’re on notice. (I figure it’s only a matter of time before PETA springs to action over the inhumane treatment of chickens. Imagine the psychological damage poultry endure being squeezed between Big Bertha’s bazookas.)
So now I’m left with unwanted images of filthy hat tricks, clowns pulling yards and yard of silk scarves out of someone’s ass, and a growing suspicion of unicycles at masturbatory implements. I’ve had to delete Judy Collins’ rendition of “Send in the Clowns” from my iPod, and it will take more than time to delete the thought of ejaculatory clownsters from my neural pathways. I’m desperately in need of deprogramming. Where is the website for that