Probably don't so much want to play the Grand Prize Game with these people
Island Packet - Everybody loves a clown, except me, because I hate them, hate them with an intractable hate, an icy and all-consuming hate, a hate that’s so hateful it’s gorgeous, because all clowns are bone-chilling, spine-curdling, bone-curdling, fake flower-squirting, red-nosed, be-wigged messengers of hideous demon-terror. And I’m not just saying that because of the recurring nightmares I’ve been having since what years of therapy have determined to be around the age of 4, but then again, I probably am. For when they would haunt my sleep, the clowns would mostly chase me across a desolate, bone-dry landscape, one filled with brush and tumbleweeds and Sergio Leone camera crews; I tried in vain to run away, but they were relentless, cackling horrifically on their unicycles and popping up from behind cactus after cactus after cactus. This went on for years, pretty much until the nightmares with the Incredible Hulk began, but this is probably oversharing now, as well as a startlingly long intro paragraph.
For the most part, I don’t like to overgeneralize about things I disapprove of, except Fox News anchors and country music, but I feel comfortable saying that clowns should be avoided at all costs; in fact I have endeavored to keep my young son, for instance, away from them for as long as possible. Seriously, if he came up to me right now and said, “Dad, can I have a clown birthday party?” or “Dad, can you buy me a carton of cigarettes?” my only question would involve his preferred level of filtering.
Pictured: Insane Clown Posse. Sometimes people get confused about exactly who this is a picture of.
Island Packet — Before anyone goes all crazy about the Insane Clown Posse performing on Hilton Head in October, a quick story: There was a time in probably 1972 when everyone was afraid of Alice Cooper, and his torrnents of blood, and his big dumb rock show, and his disembowelment and corpse makeup and all that, and the last time I encountered Alice he was, I believe, engaged in a round of televised golf on VH-1 with Hootie and the Blowfish.
Actually, that’s not true — the last time I encountered Alice was in 2005, when I interviewed him in advance of a vintage Alice, ridiculous, over-the-top splattery concert in Florida, so of course we spent the entire time talking about my son.
In preparation for Alice’s call I had deposited my then 2-year-old before what was probably the day’s 20th screening of “Elmo’s World,” a small dosage of cognitive dissonance I pointed out to Alice by way of introducing myself, and he replied with, and I am so not making this up: “Oh, I love that you’re a daddy!” and then spilled forthwith into a half hour of thoughtful, often genius parenting advice that I find myself referring to even now (“Think, Jeff,” I’ll whisper to myself when I catch Jake erupting into a small fit because his Lucky Charms have arrived in the incorrect bowl, “How would Alice react?” You’d be surprised the clarity this usually brings, along with the chorus of “School’s Out,” which is totally a bonus.) See? And you thought Alice couldn’t shock anymore.
This brings me back to the wicked clowns (well, these particular wicked clowns anyway — I still don’t trust that “Bozo”).
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Pictured: Angry rapping clown people and basketball fans
GateHouse – And now, please join me for a brief detour into the lively world of the Insane Clown Posse.
Unless you are a 14-year-old with a cape and a notebook of dark and exceedingly bad poetry, or a music writer with an assignment to write about the 50 Worst Instances Of Something, you have probably never heard of the Insane Clown Posse, made up of two Detroit rappers so named because they dress like clowns, act insanely and are frequently summoned by Old West sheriffs to help enforce the law.
Ha! I am kidding, of course: the Insane Clown Posse’s lyrics suggest they are not so much invested in adhering to the law as they are, say, telling tales of a party held underneath a cemetery starring mostly corpses, and, unless I’m dramatically misreading the lyrics here, a dancing and headless Kurt Cobain. Many, many terrible things appear in Insane Clown Posse songs, including a delightful fiesta of horror-flick murders, an evil eye that controls its owner, stabbings, mutilations, Faygo grape pop, Snoop Dogg and a man who befouls soup in a manner in which I’ve never thought about before.