TEAM LAST CALL

In our first year of marriage, my wife and I lived in a small apartment in a part of the city we affectionately refer to as “The Worst Place on Earth.”

We’d drift off to sleep each night to a sweet lullaby of gunshots, car alarms, and what I can only assume was the most excitable pack of cats in history congregating outside our bedroom window to satiate their perverse feline fantasies.

(For those who haven’t ever witnessed the hellish shrieking of mating cats, imagine the sound your cat makes when you step on its tail; then, imagine what it would sound like if, instead of stepping on your cat’s tail, you accidentally set it on fire with a blowtorch at the exact moment your cat stuck its whiskers into an electrical socket.)

Break-ins, car bombs, assaults – our neighborhood was a perpetual crime scene. Whereas other neighborhoods had strands of twinkling Christmas lights strewn across the porch railings, we had delightful strips of police tape strung gaily from tree to tree. Whereas other neighborhoods had streets full of children pedaling merrily around on their bicycles, we had sidewalks full of friendly cops coasting by on their friendly police bikes to give me a friendly parking ticket while a crack deal went down across the friendly street.

Whereas other neighborhoods had little to no car bombs, we had one detonate directly outside our kitchen window. Our cats were constipated for two weeks after that.

By the time our first Halloween came around, we felt conflicted between the excitement of seeing the cute neighborhood kids dressed up like ghosts and goblins and the justifiable fear that they might stab us.

We strongly considered the possibility of turning off the lights and hiding in the dark until the trick-or-treat terror passed. What changed our minds was the fact that, while getting mugged by a 10-year-old girl in a Pokemon suit would certainly be humiliating, it would be much less awful than, say, having our house set on fire because we didn’t give out any candy.

We ran down to the quickie mart and purchased enough candy to feed an entire herd of Anna Nicole Smiths. As the dinner hour ended, we took up our positions by the front door and waited for the children to arrive.

Finally, the doorbell rang. We opened the door, and there stood approximately every child born since 1990 dressed up as either a princess or Elmo. Their pupils were already dilated from consuming enough sugar to kill a moose. Their mouths were smeared with chocolate, their heads wobbling on their little necks like robots about to short-circuit. They needed more candy to maintain their sugar-high, and they were going to get it from us by any means necessary.

I tossed candy out into the crowd as fast as I could, swatting the most aggressive children away with a broom when they got too close.

“Oh, look,” I said, “A pretty little princess!”

“Two pieces of candy per person! Don’t be greedy!”

“Put my cat down.”

“No, you can’t have extra candy for your ‘cousin.’ He can come get it himself.”

“Oh, look! A pretty little princess!”

“Put my cat down.”

“No, you can’t have my wallet. Is that a real knife?”

“Did you just bite me?”

“Oh, look! A pretty little princess!”

“That’s funny. I had a watch just like that stolen from my car last week ...”

“Put my cat down.”

“Oh, look! A pretty little princess ...”

As the night wore on, the children ringing my doorbell became older and older. Eventually, I’d open the door to some smirking 15-year-old in jeans and a T-shirt, a bad teen mustache, and a greasy paper bag full of candy.

“And who are you dressed as?” I asked indignantly.

“Your momma,” he replied.

“That kind of attitude won’t get you anywhere, mister,” I said sternly. “Don’t you think you could have at least pretended to have a costume?”

“What’s your costume, dude?” he yelled, stepping towards me. “Oh, wait. I know: It’s a balding fat guy who’s about to get his ass kicked.”

“Good point,” I said, dropping a fistful of candy into his paper bag and running back inside.

And then it happened: we ran out of candy. We darted about the kitchen in a frenzy looking for items to hand out. Pickles? Packets of soy sauce? Sticks of butter? I broke out in a cold sweat as I realized that we had no option but to turn off the lights, hide behind the couch, and pray for daylight.

It only took about five minutes for the assault to begin. “Splat!” went the egg on our window. “Splat, splat!” went the eggs on our front door. “Splat, reeearrrr!” went the egg on our cat, who I had accidentally locked outside.

Eventually, the attack died down. I went outside to survey the damage. Our entire building was oozing like an enormous brick-and-mortar omelette. I turned to the street, shaking my fist in the air and calling out into the dark night.

“I’ll get you kids,” I yelled, “if it’s the last thing I ...”

“Splat!”

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.