Don’t get caught near the woods without a creepy-clown contingency plan

After I leashed up my dog for his morning walk Thursday, we stood for a moment in the living room and watched an unfortunate news segment on TV that we both wish we had never seen.

Those creepy clowns — the ones that were first seen in Greenville at the woody edge of an apartment complex and throughout the town in various forms of terror — had tracked northward and were now appearing in Winston-Salem, N.C., and Greensboro, N.C.

As I walked my dog, I realized two things. 1. I live on the woody edge of an apartment complex and 2. I have no creepy clown contingency plan.

None.

I have no idea what I would do if I saw one on the woody edge.

I’m not particularly scared of clowns, mind you. I don’t think about them ever. But I do like to be prepared.

For instance, I know what I would do in the case of:

▪  A mugging: Pretend to be the TV host of a hidden-camera show. “Sir, you’re not going to believe this. You’re on the new NBC show ‘Victimless Crime,’ where we stop a crime in action, find out why the would-be criminal is doing this and then reward the would-be criminal with whatever amount of money he was looking for from the would-be victim. If you could lower your switchblade just a bit, thank you, and look straight ahead at that tree and then that bush and that streetlamp. See our cameras? Now, what happened to you? Why are you doing this? And how much money did you think I was carrying in these leggings with no pockets? Please speak into my flesh-colored finger mic.”

▪  Alligator attack: Confuse the alligator by yelling “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, THERE’S AN ALLIGATOR” in his face.

▪  Hijacking: Compliment the terrorist so he feels really good about himself and then make him feel uneasy. “You are SO good at this. So detailed. And authoritative. How ever did you get that machete through security? They still have my face cream back in Savannah. You really have this hijacking thing down. Menacing stare. Angry voice. Clear instructions to your hostages. Element of surprise. I totally assumed you were on your way to a Pfizer convention …. I really wish your dad could see this. But …. you were never able to impress that man, were you? Nothing you did was ever good enough for him, am I right? He loved you, Hijacker. And you need to love that hurt little boy inside of you who is still searching for your dad’s approval. Goodness, please have a seat. Here, I’ll take that weapon. Have a Puffs Plus. NOW WHO’S THE HIJACKER, CRY BABY? Your dad was right.”

▪  Great white shark attack: Hug the shark until he admits he’s never known a love like this till now.

▪  Home invasion: Pretend I was expecting the person and immediately overburden him with neediness. “Oh my God! You came! For my birthday! I didn’t think you’d remember. No one else did. Not one person. Not even on Facebook. But you’re here now and I have SO MUCH planned for us. First, let’s take a couples’ selfie. Wait, no. First, let’s read each other’s bedside astrologer. Then I want you to list 10, no 25, things you like about me and one area of improvement that I should focus on for the year ahead but please don’t say my forehead wrinkles. Sigh. I never want to leave your side, Best Fiance Ever. That’s OK that I call you that, right? We’re going to be together forever, right? What do you mean ‘wrong apartment’?”

On our walk Thursday, my dog and I brainstormed about what to do if we ever see a creepy clown on the woody edge. I’m being generous here. Every idea my dog offered involved an old-timey bottle of seltzer water, which is just an impractical thing for me to carry along with his leash.

Possible Creepy Clown Contingency Plans:

▪  Have pocket mirror available to show the creepy clown to himself because, statistically speaking, three out of four creepy clowns are also afraid of creepy clowns.

▪  Walk casually to the nearest neighbor’s door, knock as if I’m not scared and say “Don’t look now at the woody edge of our apartment complex. There’s a creepy clown watching us. I need you to go inside, get two balloons. I’m going to twist one into a gun and the other into a police badge. Move. Quickly.”

▪  Hand the creepy clown my phone and whisper, “It’s Donald Trump, he wants his brain back. Oops. Hold on. Call-waiting. Now it’s Hillary Clinton. She said come STRAIGHT home after your Goldman Sachs speech, Mr. Clinton. And by the way, she IS going to sniff your jacket for Clinique Happy. She knows she doesn’t wear that swill.”

▪  Walk up to the creepy clown and ask him what brought him to the Lowcountry. After he says “Golf” and laughs like he’s the first person who’s ever said that, text the only sheriff’s deputy whose cellphone number I have saved while the creepy clown busies himself by listing all the places he’s lived and worked before retiring here. “ My creepy clown wife still wishes we kept our home in Bar Harbor because the summers here are too hot for her, but I like the heat. It’s the South, after all. Though this summer was brutal, right? Sixty days of 90 degrees plus. Or was it 70 days? My creepy clown makeup just sweats right off me before I’ve even left the house.”

▪  Yell “Skittles? Is that you? It’s me! Doodle! Don’t you dare pretend you don’t recognize me without my nose. Think you’ll recognize Freckles, our baby you abandoned? And how about that $15,000 in back child support you owe me? Think you’ll recognize that? Yeah, you better run. Go home to Zazzle. Just so you know, Tinker and Jingles are MY friends not yours. Enjoy the woods, you clown.”

This story was originally published September 9, 2016 at 8:09 AM with the headline "Don’t get caught near the woods without a creepy-clown contingency plan."