talk to the clown
When I offered up a buck for a creepy ceramic clown in a small-town junk store, I only dimly perceived the great and terrible power of the clown. When I laid said clown down in the passenger seat and, then, on the black leather office couch, friends and colleagues reacted like they'd seen a corpse rather than a clown. When they visited my office for a demand or request, a little part of me was tempted to exploit the coulrophobia: "I dunno," I might say, "Maybe you should talk to the clown." "Talk to The Clown." "TALK TO THE CLOWN!"
When I took the clown back home, the family didn't want the clown in the house, or the garage, or the deck, or the yard, or anywhere near the house, or the garage, or the deck, or the yard. And when, in desperation, I returned to the junk store to return the clown, that junk store was gone.
[Ok, I made that last bit up. But the part about the clown doll giving everyone at home and in the office the heebie-jeebies is entirely not made up.]