Should I even go there? Do I want to relive trauma?
Since the anniversary of Stephen King’s IT, I’ve been experiencing a string of nightly terrors. I don’t mean just bad dreams. I’m talking horrifying terrors – of a clown that terrorized me on my 8th birthday. I haven’t slept in over a week, give or take an hour here and there.
All those who remember The Ground Round restaurant, raise your hand. Yeah. Great place – except for Bingo the f*cking creep clown. WHOSE idea was it to have a clown terrorize children?! There’s a special place in hell for them.
Rewind back to 1978 – my 8th birthday. My parents decided to spoil me, and had a huge party at the Ground Round restaurant. Let me set the scene for you. Imagine a place that resembles today’s Texas Roadhouse. At every table – covered with red and white checkered table cloths – there were buckets of peanuts. The floors were hard wood, and there was country music playing on the jukebox.
Back in the day when jukeboxes were a thing, my birthday party should’ve been fanfreakingtastic! I’d bug my parents for quarters, and play music to my heart’s content, whilst playing the pinball machine against my brother. But since my closest friends were also there, my musical fun was limited. As my best friend used to say (and still probably does) “You and your stupid music”. Leave my music alone.
Imagine, if you will, the largest room in the place, cleared for my birthday. There were about a dozen family members, and ten or so of my best friends. All having a grand old time. Until …….
Sorry, but I refuse to put an actual picture. I might punch my screen. Or spit at it.
Bingo the birthday clown has decided to pop up from nowhere, scaring the living shit out of me.
Why am I scared of clowns? Shall I rewind a little further back? Okay. When I was four years old, my parents decided to take me to our local theme park, where there was of course a f*cking clown. Needless to say, creepy creeperton decided to single me out in a crowd of a few hundred, and got two inches from my face. He proceeded to stroke my face, calling me darling, and pinned a star on my chest for being such a good sport. Excuse me. I don’t think being terrified of your painted molesting mug equates being a good sport.
Fast forward back to my eighth birthday. After a few rounds of Bingo popping up from the depths of Ground Round HELL, I decided to fix his little red-wigged wagon. On my way to the little girl’s room with my friends, he decided to jump out at me from behind a door right next to the bathroom.
His day ended with a mouthful of spit, and my day ended at a table with my parents, since my friends were so embarrassed, they didn’t want to sit with me anymore.
Until a year or so before my mom passed, she never knew what had happened. She just figured my friends were being mean. Until my brother came forward with his story. Come to find out, the clown was being SO creepy, he and my Uncle Frank took to throwing peanuts at him – earning them an escort out of the restaurant.
Happy freaking birthday! Bingo, I hope you’re rotting in hell for what you did to me.
Tell me again why I decided to recreate this???
Oh yeah. Writing ideas.