1) They’re murderers. All of them. Remember John Wayne Gacey? Maybe not all murderers are clowns, but all clowns are definitely murderers (this has not been substantiated in any way). For visual learners, here’s a diagram and a photo. The diagram shows you that 100 percent of all clowns are murderers (rough estimate) and the photo shows you what it looks like right before a clown murders you.
Percentage of clowns that are murderers
vs. percentage of murderers that are clowns
Clown that will be waiting on your sofa eating
your popcorn ready to murder you when you
get home from work tomorrow
2) They’re show offs. Oh really. So you can make a balloon animal? How amazing. I can sing that part in “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone” that goes andiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknowiknow in one breath. Do you see me wearing a ridiculous costume and forcing my beautiful songbird voice on anybody that’s just trying to enjoy their lunch at Gringo’s in peace? Do you see me walking around in a grocery store with a megaphone singing Bill Withers to people trying to shop for gluten-free bread and handing out stickers that say ‘I met a girl who can sing like Bill Withers today’ to everyone in the dairy aisle? No! You know why? Because it’s obnoxious! Knock it off with the stupid flower hats! No one wants to wear them! I don’t think you’re incredible because you can take an already-pliable material and shape it into something I can’t actually pet or wear. If you really want to impress me, try showing me that you’re not a murderer by taking off that horrible face paint and getting a real job. Here’s a picture of a clown being an asshole.
Get a hold of yourself, asshole.
3) They live in caves. Trust me. Here’s a picture of what to look for and then a picture of the murderous clown that lives in this particular cave.
Clown habitat with evidence of recent clown activity
Murderous clown that lives (or doesn't) in this cave
4) They serve too many functions. Seriously, clown. Am I supposed to be sad for you because you’re a gloomy hobo clown warming your creepy clown hands over a fire in a barrel with a bandana on a stick over your shoulder? Am I supposed to be laughing at you because seventy six of you just got out of a Smart car and you’re all wearing comically large shoes and carrying some sort of fruit pie? Am I supposed to be relieved you’re there because you’re distracting a bull from a grown man that made the dumb decision to get on an animal that is the equivalent of an angry, fast triceratops minus one horn? Am I supposed to be impressed by you because you can put on a weird spandex costume, speak in French and walk four hundred feet in the air on a tight rope? (Cirque du Soliel: stop it) The clown world doesn’t need utility players, clown. Pick a function and stick with it so I know what to avoid in the future.
Boo hoo hoo. Get a job.
Your shoes sicken me, clown. Quit stuffing
115 of your friends in one car. I hate you.
"Bull riders make bad decisions, but I make
What in Jeezy Creezy's name is this
horrible monstrosity about?
And there it is. It’s not because of haunted houses. It’s not because a clown murdered a friend of mine (yet. I’m sure this will happen). And it’s certainly not because of the movie It. The book was so much better anyway, Chuckles.
Here’s a picture of me in a shirt two sizes too small.