(Mis)adventures in Dating a Clown

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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.”

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