Reasons I Hate Balloons

I hate balloons.

That's an understatement, actually. I am terrified of balloons, specifically latex balloons. Balloons have a lot of bad memories attached to them for me. I can't stand them.

My grandparents were clowns. There, I said it. I don't mean they were "clowns," as in they were bumbling idiots. They were real clowns. At least, they tried to be. My grandfather was a clown named Cookie and my grandmother was a clown named Crybaby. They wanted to be in the circus. They told me and my sister that they were in the circus. Much later in life, I learned that they were never in the circus. They were failed clowns that performed in library basements, and are probably what the nightmares of many people my age that saw them are made of.

My grandparents did the standard clown things, I guess. Truth be told, I don't think I ever saw clowns other than my grandparents (and their wannabe-clown friends), so I can't think of anything that I can compare them to. My grandmother as Crybaby would do the patented Lucille Ball "Waaaaaahhhhhh!" when she cried. My grandfather, Cookie, did nothing. He was my grandfather in clown makeup and a wig. He even wore the same glasses he wore in everyday life. He didn't have a voice or a talk or a gimmick. At least my grandmother tried.

Like other clowns, they created balloon animals. Unfortunately, I don't think they ever attended that day in clown school. They cut balloon animal class, and they tried to wing it on their own. Please notice the use of "they tried" in that statement.

They tried, and they failed.

Whenever my sister would go to their house or go to one of their clown shows in a library basement - which, fortunately for us, wasn't too often - we would be subjected to their balloon animals. They would use me as their volunteer in live shows, and would practice on us in their home. All you would hear was the horrid "SQUEAKY! SQUEAKY!" of the latex twisting and rubbing against istelf, followed by the inevitible "POP!" that would happen right in front of my face. Spittle from my grandparents' blowing up the balloons with their mouths rather than a pump would spray my face like a disgusting mist.

One day sticks out in my mind. My sister and I were at a show in some library basement.My grandparents picked me out of the audience and had me sit in a chair center stage for their balloon animal bit. My grandfather was making a green balloon poodle, and he came to the part where he sucked on the end of the floppy part of the balloon to make a fluffy-looking tail. Well, the balloon slipped out of his hand or something, and the back part of the poodle went down his throat. He choked. Worse, he panicked. He dropped to his knees, clutching his throat, right in front of me. My grandmother calmly yanked the poodle from his mouth, and the tail had actually come out the way he intended. Always with "the show must go on" mentality, my grandmother handed me the balloon poodle, dripping with my grandfather's spit, as my grandfather pulled himself to his feet.

To this day, I cannot shake the image of my grandfather choking on the balloon poodle. Furthermore, the SQUEAKY SQUEAKY of a balloon rubbing against something makes me cringe in anticipation for the "POP" that would always follow.

So, I hate balloons. Can you blame me?