Usually Uncle Warmheart's tales are full
of happiness and love. Today, his tale is about struggle, trial,
and....defeat. de(large)feet. But bear with me and
perhaps you will learn something from Warmheart's struggle to save a being
from another species.
Warmheart here. The next time your kid asks
you to take him to the circus to see the clowns, don't even think about it.
Just haul off and punch that kid right square in the nose.
You have to do it without thinking because nobody wants to hit their own son
or daughter. But I'm telling you, it's the best thing you will ever
do as a mother or father.
What's that? You don't agree? You
think it's a terrible thing to say? Well, perhaps I better tell my story
and maybe then you'll see things from my point of view.
I remember it like it was yesterday, but it's
really been about fifteen years since the fateful day the commercial came on
the television. Sometimes I find myself wondering how different
things would be right now if we had been watching another channel that night,
or if we had been doing something else, anything but watching that
channel on that night! Who knows, maybe the world
would not look as insane to me as it does today.
But we were watching that television and we were
watching that channel and that commercial did come on. .It
was one of those extravaganza commercials all about the circus that was coming
to town. Tenderheart, then a trifling six years old, was somewhat
interested but when they showed those bastard clowns, it was all over. A
tidal wave would not have kept him from going to that circus to see and meet
those clowns. His eyes glazed over like a coke addict staring at a
mirror laden with powder. This wasn't even going to be a fight.
We were going. The whole problem is that I HATE AND FEAR
clowns more than people in the midwest hate and fear people from the middle
east. I knew then that clowns were all evil and I know this now
even more than before. Think about it. What sort of person would
become a clown? A normal person you might sit next to at work...or...a
deranged psychotic bent on the destruction of his or her fellow man?
You make the choice; I have already made mine. This was a chance,
I figured correctly, to teach my son about these pyscho maniacs.
Oh yes, I told myself, I will go through this terrible ordeal for his sake.
Then I would go back to my childhood vow of never ever seeing a clown again,
unless it's through the sight of a rifle.
Two weeks of terrible, sweat-filled waiting
came to an end when, hand in hand, my son and I pulled into the
parking lot where they had set up the circus. We parked right next to a
vanload of retarded adults, all wearing helmets. 'We'll have to sit next
to these dolts', I thought to myself. 'Then, if the clowns got out of
hand and start shooting into the crowd, I will grab one of 'em and use 'em for
a human shield'.
Much to my son's dismay, I made us wait and walk
(SLOWLY) behind the helmeted/backpacked people. "There's
your clowns", I said to Tenderheart and warmhearted laughter ensued.
Fifteen agonizingly slow minutes later, we were in
our seats, me safely esconced next to the group of retards. You
have to understand something right here: I was in a terrible state,
fearing the arrival of the clowns and so, to help lighten up the situation, I
hooted and hollered and stomped my feet just like the guy next to me. I
even borrowed his helmet for a few minutes. Unfortunately, even at
six years old, Tenderheart seemed to be pretty embarassed about these
antics. Forced, I was, to act normal.
About twenty minutes into the show, I sat lazily
watching as a team of bareback riders finished their act and left the
ring. Now, the center ring, which had been dark for some time, was lit
up. In that ring was a building I had not noticed before.
It was like a tiny city building. How could I have missed it until now,
I wondered. But that thought was replaced by one of horror when I saw
that a poor clown was trapped in that building. Smoke was coming out of
the windows and this clown was fearfully waving his big gloved hands, clearly
in need of rescue! Loud, crazy music began playing and a
whole group of clowns exploded on the scene in a little fire truck. They
came on like yet another German blitzkrieg through Belgium and
France! I sat, frozen in horror as these maniacs drove that truck
right into that center ring.
Around and around, in circles they drove, seemingly
unaware of how to bring the vehicle to the building! Even I grew
worried for the lone clown's safety because the other clowns were making
a complete mess of things getting over there.
It was a hideous thing to watch as first one
then another clown would grab the wheel of the firetruck and try to steer them
towards rescue. I looked at the retarded guy next to me and, to my
shock, he was just laughing it all off like it was some sort of bizarre joke.
I looked back to the arena thinking that surely they would have brought
their vehicle under control by now but no! A clown in the back of
the truck had now pulled the steering wheel completely off of the column
and was waving it frantically in the air! The driver was beep beep
beeping the horn but it was to no avail.
"Oh my God!" I screamed. This was
no good. Why wasn't anybody doing anything to help this poor clown?
I figured that, although everybody was making a loud noise, that they were
waiting for a hero. They were waiting for someone to leap out
of the crowd and do something! But everybody remained in
Most of the clowns in the fire truck had fallen
out now and were rolling helplessly around the arena! The smoke
was pouring from the building now and why couldn't everybody see that
that poor clown was going to be killed unless someone came to get him out? My
mind was ablaze with questions and debate. Yes, I've always
despised clowns. So why shouldn't I just sit back and enjoy watching him
die? I looked around at the cheering throngs. It
occured to me then that EVERYBODY hates clowns. Why else would
they be so excited? At that instant, I gained a new viewpoint on
life and what it all means.
I knew then that I could not be a part of this
howling mob. Even if it was a clown, it still was some sort of
Next, I considered my knowlege of fire and how
people die in fires. I knew that the smoke was what was dangerous.
I knew I had to act and act fast. I rose to
my feet and started making my way to the aisle, knocking into knees and
pushing people back. I heard Tenderheart call out "What are you doing,
Dad?", but I had no time to answer him now.
I made it to the aisle and ran down, down towards
the arena. A fat security guard tried to stop me, but I juked him out
by faking left and cutting right. I lept over the wall and
out into the arena with no concern for my own safety.
I knew instinctively that I only one thing to
fear, and that was those bastards in the fire truck. If they spotted me,
they would certainly kill me. I made it into the center ring and heard a
huge roar from the crowd. Ah! I had the crowd with me.
They were cheering me on to the rescue.
As I got closer to the building, I could see that
I had been spotted. I was being chased! Now I was
the hunted. Not only were security guards following me, but the clowns
themselves were after me. I made a dizzying and mad series of circles
and cuts. The crowd was loud now, cheering my every move, my every
step. A clown dove and caught me by the ankles. I went down,
"YOU IDIOT!", I yelled in a frozen
panic, "CAN'T YOU SEE I AM TRYING TO HELP YOUR FRIEND OUT!?".
But the roar of the crowd drowned me out. Mere seconds before another
clown was going to reach me, I twisted out of the evil vice-like grip that had
held my ankles. Free! I stood up. The building, my
goal, my purpose, was directly in front of me! I lunged forward, but in
my panic, I stumbled. That was all it took. The
guards, the very bastards who wanted the clown to die, were all over me.
I writhed and twisted, every ounce of energy in me
intent on making it up the stairs of that building. But the enemy was
too much. I was being Rodney Kinged until I could barely
sense any more. Then, all went black.
It seems as if I walked through an eternity of
dark dreams, filled with clowns. Each one of them pointing accusing
white-gloved fingers at me. They were all chanting something.
I couldn't make out what it was at the time, but later realized that it's
because clowns can't speak. What they do is put their voices into
your head, filling it up until it bursts. "You let him die"
was what they were telling me.
I came to, a writhing maniac, but found I could
not move. I was in a straight-jacket in the back of an ambulance.
Ah well. I must admit to you here and now that I gave up at that moment.
I knew there was nothing more I could do for my big footed friend.
I looked around the vehicle at the faces and saw my son. Tenderheart.
"Son", I gasped. "I gave it a
shot. I tried to save that clown. Did.....did he
All my son could do was shake his head and look
I was sorry. Sorry to see that my son,
then only six years old, had to see with his own eyes, this senseless tragedy.