A good majority of people who have been raped by clowns are not amused by them anymore. I can attest to the revulsion felt by those who have been brutally attacked by these seemingly harmless and childlike people because I too suffered an encounter which I have mostly blocked from my memory. Only flashes of what occurred continue to tumble around in my head, but those haunting images have seared my very soul. I can still hear the laughter, the disgusting panting and the incessant honking of the big bulb nose as the clown satisfied himself. Luckily, I don't recall the money shot. Now when I see clowns I feel the frustrated sickness envelope me in a cloud that is as inescapable as death and as revolting as man-on-man, lube-free sex in a Eurovan in the blinding mid-summer heat of an East Texas July afternoon. Of course, I may have been partially to blame for what happened to me, but I still do not think wearing cut off jean shorts and a tummy shirt is any excuse for what followed. Though I now believe that had I picked anything else off my closet floor that day I might have avoided an unpleasant date with destiny. I have heard rumors that clowns are on the move, leaving the saftey they find in larger urban centers and descending upon quiet, helpless towns. This must be stopped. If you decide to kill one, before they die I want you to tell them Buff Tan Honky sends his regards.
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