Friday, June 24, 2005

Fuck the reaper, Bozo is worse

Phobias. They're supposedly mostly irrational fears. This I can understand because, aww, how horrible it must be to freak out at the mere thought of the Dutch. Seriously. That's a real fear. Must be the ugly wooden shoes or those white-blond eyebrows that match their white-blond hair making them look like killer kids in a bad 70's horror movie.

Despite the lame fears some are entirely justified and entirely real and those who think they aren't can bite me. I have a few, and of course I think they are totally warranted and not as infantile as chasing a little, tiny spider around the kitchen sink trying to stab it with a steak knife. Not that anyone I know did that recently or anything. So yes, even though some are goofy, there are those aversions that are genuine and should be taken seriously and looked upon with coquettishly batting doe eyes and tender petting and not rude mocking and dismissal. Especially the ones I have. So, fuck you Freud, I'm not crazy. Much.

Don't like bugs or snakes. No way no how. They are nasty and creepy and icky. That damn Animal Planet is obsessed with them. Bugs and snakes. Bugs and snakes. Lion thwapping an antelope in the ass with a clawed paw. Bugs and Snakes. What is their deal? Can't those animal dudes go traipse through the desert looking for puppies instead of killer snakes and creepy demonic bugs of hell?

Hey, how about doing a show on what's the cutest furry thing that nuzzles your cheek with love instead of the eel-like fish that crawls up your hoo-ha if you pee in the river and latches onto your tingly parts with head spikes and sucks your blood dry. I'm forever turning to that channel hoping to see a special on furry mammal babies only to have a giant 4 foot wide cobra spitting venom at my screen or a 20 pound flying cockroach devouring a small village. Christalmighty. It's enough to give a delicate girl like me a heart attack.

I also don't like hair. Which is the dumbest thing if you knew me, since my hair has grown past my waist and is now in danger of getting caught in my crack. It needs a trim, I'm not aiming to be the next Crystal Gale or anything. When hair is at risk of being flushed down the toilet, it's too damn long. Hair is OK if it's attached to your head, but once it leaves, all bets are off. I completely gag if I see a stray follicle on a sink somewhere. God forbid I find one in my food. Gack. I have to stop now or I'll have to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon.

Flying. Need I say more?

Also, clowns. I blame my mother for this one. It's one of my strongest revulsions. Some might call it a phobia, but it's not like I avert my eyes when seeing an image of this particular thing. It's not as if I shudder at the mere thought of Ronald McDonald. It isn't something that I spend much time thinking about! OK. Those are lies. It's pretty much exactly like that. But it's not my fault!

When I was a kid I had this Jack-in-the-Box toy, but instead of having a friendly little Jack inside, it had a fucking clown. A googly-eyed sneering-smile possessed clown. Here I am, an innocent (stop laughing) little girl, playing with her innocent little toy unaware at the carnage coming my way.

If the whole clown thing wasn't bad enough, it didn't work right. I'd slowly turn the little metal crank and it would play that creepy plinkity-plinkity-plink-plink song but the damn thing wouldn't pop up. Until you were staring at it real close for a second going hmf, what's up with this, and then WHAM! Right in your face. No warning plinks or anything. Just the fucking clown popping out trying to scare the shit out of me, and succeeding.

After the Attack-in-the-box met it's ultimate doom, I received another gift from my mother that planted yet another seed for my collection of fears. Mom was an abuser of the sewing machine. You know, one of those kooky mothers who had the philosophy that you could make anything you wanted or needed with a needle and thread. She was wrong. Thanks for those polyester home-made bikini's from extra upholstry fabric mom! They were SWELL!.

For one of my early birthdays, 11 perhaps, mom had gotten the bright idea to make me a gift. I've been nutso crazy about stuffed animals my whole life, still am and probably always will be. Instead of buying me a snuggly, fuzzy Gund teddy bear, my mom decided to make me a new friend to cuddle with. As I unwrapped my squishy treasure, I quickly realized this was no fucking teddy bear. It was a clown! And not just any clown. It was almost a direct copy of that psychotic killer clown from Poltergeist. Jesus, Mom, where you find this? Fun Patterns for the Possessed? Like I'm gonna love up something that's gonna kill me in my sleep and make my braces grow 100 feet long. Don't think so.

Apparently my mother didn't get the hint after I gave Bozo the Cursed an obligatory position among my non-possessed animals for a short time then stuffed him into the back of my closet. A few years later she was struck with yet another great plan that involved her beloved sewing machine and what I suspect was a devilish sense of humor, since I never did figure out just what the hell she was thinking with this one.

I was about 14 and it was Christmastime. I still hunted the house for my gifts, not yet affected by the spoiling of the prize knowing ahead of time what I was getting. My parents were off playing tennis or something and I was home alone. It was a pretty big house, but you can't hide anything from me. I can turn any amount of square footage inside out and put it back exactly as I found it.

I figured the best place to start was my parents bedroom. I poked around in their closets for a bit and found nothing. The dresser was also a zero. Next stop, under the bed. I got down on my belly and scooted myself to the edge of the bedskirt. My face jammed up against the frame. Excitement growing as I had a feeling I was getting closer to breaking the case and finding my loot. I was giggling with anticipation and filled with the naughty. I lifted the material and suddenly found myself nose-to-nose with a face starting back at me with vacant eyes and a maniacal blood-red smile.

Holy Christ! I flew backwards screaming, smashing my head in the process. When I retrieved my heart from the ceiling I tentatively went back under the bed to find out what the fuck that thing was.

My mother had sewn me a boy. A life-sized freaky-assed button-nosed boy. Complete with red string hair and patches on his knees. It looked like Richie Cunningham on crack with long skinny spindly arms and legs and a frozen sneer. Now what the fuck am I'm going to do with this thing? And just what the blue hell did she think I was going to do with this thing? And how the heck am I going to open that package on Christmas morning knowing that it contains a demonic Opie? What. Was. She. Thinking.

I managed to compose myself and pretend I wasn't home alone with an undoubtedly demented Chucky and faked my happiness at this bizarre gift on Christmas morning. The boy eventually was the recipient of many drunken teenage pornish pranks, and one day he just up and disappeared. I don't know what happened to him, but I like to think he went back to his own dimension. The one Tom Cruise apparently escaped from.

The most recent cherry on my paranoia cake came around Halloween a couple of years ago. I had joined some friends and their kids for dinner and a trek through one of those haunted house things that crop up everywhere. It was at Balboa Park in San Diego, which is spooky enough by itself, but outfitted for the season with a creepshow called The Haunted Trails.

Those things really don't scare me but it was fun to watch the four 15 year-old boys with us try to be tough while they're screaming like little girls and grabbing onto you for protection. Big tough boys, indeed. I was totally making fun of them and acting like the cool bitch I am, but revenge would be all theirs soon enough.

We were almost at the end of this thing and we came upon an outdoor "room" fashioned out of tall plywood walls. There was no way around it and we were forced to enter in order to exit. I hadn't thought anything about it since nothing had phased me so far. I stepped one foot inside the flashing neon-lit room with the deafening music when I realized I was indubitably fucked. This place was not inhabited by zombies. There were no giant rats or Freddie Krugers trying to suck us into the ceiling. This nightmare was swarming with Killer Clowns From Outer Space ghouls. And this is where I lost my shit.

I immediately flung myself over into a fetal position, covered my face with my hands and started yelling "I don't do clowns, I don't do clowns"!!! I was not going to get sympathy or help from my crew of friends and they immediately stepped away from me like I'd just peed in the pool. Leaving me alone in the middle of the floor being pounced upon on all sides by fucking psychotic clowns with jagged teeth and red eyes. At least I'm sure that's what they looked like because I was still hunched over covering my face and screaming "I don't do clowns"!!

Then one of my brilliant friends yells my name laughing hysterically so this one evil clown comes running over to me, bends down trying to get his face in my face and starts growling in this scary voice, "come on Betttttyyyyyyy, look at meeeeeee Betttttyyyyyyyyyy, ahhhhh Betttttyyyyy, loooooook Bettttyyyy". Nearly peed my pants. Clowns are the minions of the devil, I say. THE DEVIL.

And don't even get me started on that god damn Grinch.

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