Dear Clowns,

First off, let me say that I believe a human lives and breathes underneath all that pasty, overused makeup because that’s what my therapist tells me, and I lean on every word she tells me about you because she taught me how not to shriek, run, or cower in fear every time I see you. But you still make my heart beat loud enough for people in China to hear, and I feel myself start to hyperventilate when you come near. For this reason, I have decided to tell you how to make me, and people like me, feel just a little more comfortable.

Let me start with the nose. Noses are not meant to be bright red balls. There are plenty of ideas as to the start of the red nose. Some think that maybe the first clown had such a bad cold that later he was quarantined, but all other clown aspirer-ers wanted to be just like him, so they went and got big rubber balls to put on their nose. Personally, I think you all are just vying for Rudolph’s position as head reindeer. Whatever the real reason, the nose doesn’t work for you.

The nose might be tolerable, were it not for the face. NO ONE. I repeat, NO. ONE. Wears that much makeup. Your makeup is as overpowering and as startling as an old woman’s perfume. It’s not normal to use an entire bottle of white paint every time you paint your face, or to go through an entire tube of candy apple red lipstick whenever you put lipstick on your face. Someone who has an inch of lipstick AROUND his or her mouth really needs to invest in a mirror. And the eyes? Eye shadow goes on the top eyelid, not all around the eye past the eyebrow and down to mid-cheek. I mean, really. Even my blind grandma can put her makeup on better.

Although the face is terribly disturbing, even it would be at least a little bearable were it not for the shoes. Seriously? Shoes are made to be maybe a little larger than the feet, not 20 inches larger. Flippers for scuba diving aren’t as long as those hideous red shoes you think pass as style. I’m pretty sure you’ve never seen a fashion magazine in your life. Unless you’ve grown up in a dark hole in the Amazon rain forest, you should know that polka dots, plaid, and stripes do not go together. Neon yellow and greens should not be found on the same outfit, and if they are, said outfit should be burned at once. But what do I know? I’m only a teenager who has every fashion magazine you can think of (Vogue, 17, Cosmopolitan… shall I keep going?) and you are a middle-aged creeper who must take massive enjoyment out of terrorizing children at birthday parties and circuses, otherwise you’d take my advice and change your look.

Now, I’ve saved one of the most disturbing parts of your clown aura for last because I’m sure that even children would be able to pick you out of a lineup with this one feature. What am I talking about? The hair. Whoever thought that hair with every color of the rainbow, and then some, was a good idea is probably in the mental institution now. It looks as if a poodle got loose in the dreamsicle factory and then curled up and died on your head. I’m surprised people from the animal rights movement haven’t come knocking down your door with garden shears and picket signs in an attempt to terminate said hairstyle.

Now I realize that when you take away the freaky nose, over-done makeup, massive shoes, terrible clothes, and poodle-turned-dreamsicle-nightmare wig, you aren’t a clown anymore. And that’s what I’m getting at. Without all the clown-y parts of your outfit that make you a clown, you’re just a human being. And if you stay a human being, I won’t have chilling nightmares where you encroach upon my room through my bedroom door (or the window… there’s always some sort of variety), creep over to my bed (though I should probably say squeak over as those shoes don’t help in the matter of stealth), and attack me either by scaring me to death by squeezing a bike horn in my ear, strangling me with one of those long balloons used to make those disturbing blow-up animals, or running over me with your tiny car. I won’t have it any more. And I’m not going to tolerate you giving children the same sort of nightmares that will recur even when they’re in the nursing homes.

Let me reiterate this one more time. Lose the creeper status. I don’t deserve to have a mini-seizure from excessive shaking while watching five clowns fit into a car the size of an anteater, fearing that when that car explodes from being packed too tightly, one of you creepers will land right on me. Lose the nose. Lose the makeup. Lose the shoes. Lose the clothes. Lose the hair. If you want to try something really crazy and shocking, blend into society. Try a business suit. It pays better, anyway.

Your active member in the “Clowns are Creepers” movement,
Rachael P