When I was in fourth grade, my parents thought it would be a good idea to dress me up as a California Raisin for Halloween.
I found myself standing in the middle of the living room, wearing nothing but a pair of my sister’s tights and a brown trash bag over my head. My parents, snorting and giggling, were on the floor, wadding up newspaper and cramming it up into the giant trash bag. Once the bag was stuffed to capacity, my parents tied it off around my waist and cut a hole for my face to stick through.
I waddled over to the mirror, my arms sticking straight out over the bulk of my costume. I looked in the mirror. I looked like giant poop. I looked at my parents. They stood with their hands covering their mouths, their faces red, their bodies shaking. My mother had tears in her eyes. My father had a vein swelling up in his forehead like a cartoon thermometer.
“Son,” my father said, choking, “You’ll be the best-looking terd-with-legs in the whole neighborhood.” And with that, my parents collapsed on the floor in hysterics, panting, wheezing, slapping the floor, occasionally pausing to get a glimpse of my poop costume before erupting with another fit of laughter.
I left my parents rolling on the floor, grabbed my trick-or-treat pail, and headed out the door to impress the neighborhood kids, who had nothing but kind and supportive things to say.
“Check it out! The fat kid’s dressed up like a giant terd!” said one.
“Hey, terd-brain, why don’t you crawl back into the gigantic ass you came from?” added another.
“Give us your candy, fatty, or we’ll spray-paint all over your poop-suit!” said my girlfriend.
When you’re a short, pudgy, pigeon-toed nerdling trapped inside an air-tight poop-suit, the odds are stacked against you. I spent the next few hours darting from house to house, hovering in the bushes and waiting for a lull in the trick-or-treating. When the coast was clear, I would waddle to the door to get my candy, much to the confusion of the homeowners.
“Oh, look Howard, we have another trick-or-treater!”
“What the hell is he wearing?”
“He’s a ... he’s a ... Just give him some candy, Howard.”
“But the kid’s dressed up like a giant poo!”
“Just give him the candy, Howard!”
And so forth.
Eventually, I’d get my candy and shuffle off into the bushes like Quasimodo on a sugar high. On and on I ran, prancing among the trees, my enormous, pear-shaped trash bag flapping in the breeze, my arms suspended in the air, my pupils dialiated, and my tongue wagging out of my mouth in fat, pre-pubescent delight.
My shoes were untied, my tights were riding up something fierce, and I had to pee. Could I do anything about it? No, my arms were useless! But I didn’t care! I was free, free like a piglet loose from the barn! On and on this went until I had a run-in with a rough-looking group of kids. They were menacing, with muscles bigger than mine. They demanded that I hand over my candy, which I did, but not before boldly peeing my pants. Then I ran off, swearing revenge.
Someday I’ll get those girls!
Parents, don’t let this happen to your children. Don’t send them out of the house in a poop-suit. Please, consider their future. Because once you’ve walked around in front of your peers wearing your sister’s black tights, you are doomed to a life of nerdery. I was never one of the cool kids again. Of course, I followed the poop-suit incident with a series of brilliant moves like joining the marching band, parting my hair in the middle, and pegging my pants, none of which really helped my situation. But the point is, you can improve your child’s life by making sure he or she doesn’t leave the house in a terrible costume this Halloween. Allow me to give you a few examples:
Good costume: Gene Simmons
Bad costume: Richard Simmons
Good costume: an extreme BMX biker
Bad costume: the biker from the Village People
Good costume: Prince’s buttless pants
Bad costume: Meat Loaf’s buttless pants
Good costume: Captain America
Bad costume: Captain Underpants
Good custume: chicken suit
Bad costume: poop-suit
If you have already sent your child out trick-or-treating in an embarrassing costume, don’t worry. Sure, his or her life will be a living hell for the next several years, but your child still has every chance of becoming a “cool” person with no nerdy tendencies whatsoever. Like me, for example.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get in line for “Lord of the Rings II” tickets.
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