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 their seats. 
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 living species. 
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, screaming
"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 live?"
All my son could do was shake his head and look down.  
I was sorry.   Sorry to see that my son, then only six years old, had to see with his own eyes, this senseless tragedy.  

Go to Warmheart's Back Issues

Go to Warmheart's Weekly Tales

Go to "the inspiration for this wonderful and magical tale"