Bozophobia

I was all set to get right behind this report:

LONDON (Reuters) - Bad news for Coco and Blinko -- children don't like clowns and even older kids are scared of them.

The news that will no doubt have clowns shedding tears was revealed in a poll of youngsters by researchers from the University of Sheffield who were examining how to improve the decor of hospital children's wards.

The study, reported in the Nursing Standard magazine, found all the 250 patients aged between four and 16 they quizzed disliked the use of clowns, with even the older ones finding them scary.

"As adults we make assumptions about what works for children," said Penny Curtis, a senior lecturer in research at the university.

"We found that clowns are universally disliked by children. Some found them quite frightening and unknowable."

Ban clowns? Great! However, as you can see, the reasoning behind this seems to be because researchers have found them to be "scary" or "frightening".

This is all wrong. How the hell do we expect future generations to fight off the Islamofascists or a resurgent Red Tide or space aliens if they can't face up to a little grease-paint and a few silly balloon shapes?

Clowns shouldn't be banned because they are (to use the buzzword of the article) "unknowable". No, instead they should be banned because they are overly cheerful, a trait which, when encountered by Robbo, inevitably fills me with the urge to hunt about for a brick.

I still remember vividly the end-of-school party we had at St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method one year. The party was outside, the temperature dancing near triple digits and the humidity well up into the 60's. In short, a miserable afternoon for frolicking outside the cool, protective embrace of the HVAC system.

Anyhoo, after a couple hours of beastly weather, blairing oldies and disco musick, mobs of smelly, sticky-fingered kids and interminable games of resume quick-draw with their parents, I found myself beside a clown, a middle-aged woman who had been hired for the afternoon to do face-painting and balloon-sculptures. She was decked out in the full clown monty - silly suit, flappy shoes, heavy make-up and wig - the Works.

By way of being pleasant, I said something like, "Warm work!"

"Oh," she replied, "It's not so bad."

"No, really," I said, "I admire your ability to carry off all that paint and polyestre clothing on a day like this and look happy about it! I certainly couldn't do that."

"Oh," she answered, "I just don't even notice the heat. I'm too busy making the kids smile."

And she smiled.

I blinked, somewhat aghast.

We talked for a couple more minutes, self trying various tacks to get her to come clean, she maintaining her original position. And smiling. And smiling. She wouldn't stop smiling, Dave!

It was at that point, nearly delirious from the heat and humidity myself, that I started scanning around for a brick. Confess! I wanted to shout. You're hot as hell! You're sweating gallons inside that suit! You're not enjoying yourself! You'd much rather be out of that rig with your feet up somewhere, knocking back a cold one! Confess! CONFESS!!!!!

Well, I didn't do it, of course. Instead, I just made my way off to try and find some shade and water. But the memory of that uber-cheerfulness has stuck with me. I never liked clowns to begin with. But this refusal to break - even in the most awful of conditions - was what finally put me over the edge.

I hate clowns.