Halloween Hangups

Well my clamoring comrades, I write to you in the throws of a conundrum my great and brilliant mind is trying to work out. I am currently attempting to assemble a Halloween costume. Normally this would not be a mental hurdle, save for the fact that I am no longer a young, bright-eyed child of single digit years. Today, at my age there are some rules I have found that must be followed, otherwise some sort of public ridicule will follow (and its Halloween so that could mean a number of things...). I will now share them with you along with my dazzling comments, because i know the 4.7 people that read this will be thankful.

1. Costume Size: there is your real age, then your Halloween age. While you may be in your early 20's, many find themselves in a costume meant for a small tike ages 3 to 5. Allow me to clarify, oh Drunken Slutmonster: 3 to 5 is the age of the toddler that should be in your "sexy" Thomas the Train outfit. That “3 to 5” on the package is an age, not how many drinks it’s guessing you had before you walked into that innocent Wallgreens and decided that it would be “supercute!”

2. Ears and Tails: despite what you think, just adding ears and a tail do not make a costume; they make a deformity. They do not justify you squeezing into a unitard and calling it a kitty. Maybe you feel that they represent evolution, but if that were true you would have been dead many moons ago.

3. Make-up: sadly, due to ‘The Jersey Shore’ and the downfall of humanity, the makeup people put on on Halloween is only allegedly different from their everyday regimen, but I'm not so sure. Anyone that has been to a party with twenty-somethings in this post-‘Hangover’ era knows that people, mostly ladies, do show up to parties wearing makeup that is very similar to that of a zombie. On the 31st, they just add a nose and some whiskers.

4. Bastardization: as a general rule, one should not recycle costumes that you wore in your infant/toddler years when, I am told, you were cute. I don't care what way you slice it, pumpkin + baby = cute and a bit squishy, but pumpkin + anyone over the age of 6 = boob cover. Moral of the story: stop bastardizing your youth and move away from the intimates section at Walmart.


And so as you can see, my mysterious munchkins, it’s not that easy when, due to the life choices of others, Halloween becomes a whole different kind of scary when the sun goes down.

In Fear with the Shades Drawn

So, for those ten people who care and are wondering what I have been up to lately—what might be on my brilliant young mind—I thought I would share the recent highlights with you:

1. I live in fear of the Snickers woman. I fully believe that it’s not just me—everyone has to be scared of her. It is not enough that we must be visually assaulted by our favorite childhood characters—slutted up and worn 12-sizes-too-small by girls that have just drunkenly stumbled off the bus from Playboyville (yes, I believe that in a few years, Hugh Hefner will have a town); Now we, like so many diabetics, live in fear of caramel and nougat.

2. I also might be arrested in the near future. And this brings me to my next point in the line of this week’s winners. So I will tell you a tale, part horror, part fall-of-humanity—all the makings of a good story. Before I begin though, let me just say that I plan on having this face until I’m 67 and 3 months, and that means expressions should be made at a minimum. . . but I digress. Anyway. It begins on the bus going home. It was crowded, so a man sat down next to me. I began apologizing for my portfolio, a large black canvas case, which was in his way. To be nice (and because I was bored), I asked him about what his major was and whatnot. After we talked about that he said, “Let me guess. . . You’re an artist?”

This is where things went a big awry. I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “No, I’m not an artist. I’m a freelance assassin.” I realize upon looking back that I maybe should have smiled, indicating that this was, in fact, a joke. However, that is not my MO, so I just looked at him. He got a bit uncomfortable and asked, “So. . . What’s in the bag?” I replied, “Long distance rifle, scopes, hand guns. . . You know, the basics.” Again, this was a time a smile might have been appropriate, but instead I held his gaze and stared him down. Let’s just say things got really uncomfortable. Long silence. And then the bus pulled away from the stop. Twenty-three minutes of awkward

I live in fear of the Snickers woman, adult Tinker Bells, and law enforcement. I sit with the shades drawn. . .

Dear Men of the World

Today I was almost spit on as I was walking down the street. This disgusting act was not aimed at me, but it would have landed upon me if I had not been careful. This harrowing experience has prompted me to put angry fingers to keys. . .

Dear Men of the World,

Why is it that you feel every fluid that is produced by your body is a substance that people would want you to share? Apparently, life is different with a ding-a-ling, but I for one (and I feel comfortable speaking here for all women), do not have a desire to see or come in contact with any liquid your body produces. Somewhere along the line, your less-evolved brains made some misguided conclusion in regards to this subject, and have been harassing the finer sex with it ever since. We do not, in fact, feel overjoyed watching you pee, spit, sweat, or release the Underpants Navy on or upon poor, unsuspecting civil structures or landscape-- are you trying to punish the bush? Let's leave it at this: unless we ask (which we probably won't), let's have a rule that states that this swill that you are so fond of stays only within your dwelling. Furthermore, this nectar that you produce with such pride should stay primarily in the bathroom, unless asked otherwise. And let's face it: you have a hard enough time containing things even in a controlled environment. I can say, with almost complete certainty, that you are many steps away from awesome, and in an effort to raise your rank-- do this for me. Please. I beg you. If something of yours gets on me again, I will flip a lid. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Sidney

City Symphony

As some of you may know, i have now officially moved to a city whose population is above "embarrassing". I think it is now safe to say that i have moved out of the sticks, past the covered wagons, and on to moderate adulthood. For those of you i have left behind to frolic with Bambi and friends, the city is a nosy place. It is filled with horns, sirens, strange people, and assault. Through this one can receive a unwelcome symphony of sounds at any time of the day or night. And so, my randy reader, i will share with you some of these glorious noises, and what they do to the poor people that must listen to them all day and night...

a) Sirens: when you hear a siren you think death, somewhere in this city there is an old lady that is pinned under a beam with a hungry-looking cat and things aren't looking up. Then, of course, you lay awake thinking of death and destruction, war, all that, this is followed by some glorious nightmares and when you wake up in the morning you are a Republican. I think that a good way to combat all this worry would be to have different sirens for different situations; kitten-up-a-tree would sound very different than 5-alarm-fire-with-Lifetime-movie-to-be-made-soon. It would save everyone a lot of worry. The downside to this is that people, not me, upon recognizing different alarm bells, may take it upon themselves to be the evolutionary soldier we all wish was out there and not get out of the way. Some kittens need to learn lessons... the hard way.

b) Car Alarms: while car alarms are frequent, people that will go attend to them seem few and far between. We all know that our car has an alarm, we just don't know what it sounds like, thus defeating the purpose. I think, in my infinite wisdom, that car alarms should be like a ring tone, you can program some angry rapper into the car and when you hear Eminem's angry voice going on and on about his wife you know that someone is after your car. Additionally, if a person has 'Bubbly Toes' by Jack Johnson as his alarm...rob him, life is about learning bust his car up.

c) Crazy Ramblings: in a city known for its atheism we still have many who feel that a certain someone is coming back and he is not a happy camper. The only way to really avoid this is with a noise-canceling pillow which they have yet to invent, and as a footnote they should make it fireproof so that it can easily fit in your carry-on on your way to hell.

And so i believe, my fabulous follower, that with these small minor adjustments, the city in which i reside would be a less stressful symphony of sounds; bottom line, upgrade. I have not, however, found a solution to my rapping neighbors, besides a uncomfortable murder-suicide so stay tuned.