Fact: Clowns scare me.
Fact: For some reason, so does the number 163.
Fact: The fact that the number 163 scares me scares me.
Fact: I’m actually okay with that last one. Of course, that’s not the one that matters–the first one is. The clown one.
I guess there’s a reason for everything, including the unreason of madness; and I guess the specific reason for my coulrophobia is because I had to watch Stephen King’s horror masterpiece It at the age of six. My reaction was a bit like this:
Of course, that’s only the specific reason–the cause of my insanity, not of the insanity of everyone who is affected by this horrible plague of coulrophobia. The general reason is much simpler: Clowns are scary as Hell.
No, not scary as heck, or scary as hell, or scary as Heck even–they’re scary as Hell. Catholic Hell. ‘Cept for without all the guilt.
See, the problem wouldn’t be so bad, except for the only one way to cure coulrophobia is to slaughter a live goat, and I’m fresh out of goats because my black market contact in Algiers was busted for running high-powered sniper rifles across the boarder to Tunisian rebels. Interestingly enough, Salim is also afraid of clowns, but not for the reason you’d expect–no, it’s much, much worse.
I’ve said too much, and, due to the fact that the DRS has been monitoring me for some time now, I’m going to finish this post off with a bit of unintelligible gibberish for no apparent reason.
Red and black and blew all over, the wind was high in the westerlies whilst the merrigolden waves of rapt’rous harrow-barroweller tumblt off and fell’d the mighty giant Roasted Almonds from the skyward direcions de Medici.