Jen and I typically love Halloween. On many a warm, Hollywood, October 31st evening, we have been found rocking wigs and/or fake babies and/or sausage necklaces and/or celebrity personas and/or conceptual interpretations of political catch phrases, while pulling cobwebs off of our pumps, throwing fake crows at party crashers, drowning in whiskey and pizza, and sweating buckets while dancing to vintage Michael Jackson. Halloween is a good time. Check that–Halloween is a great time. But all of the elements need to be in order.
For starters: You’ve gotta like your friends. I know this sounds silly, but if you’re going to go to the trouble of designing a cumbersome costume that somehow conveys “WOMD”–more importantly, the willful inconvenience of explaining exactly how it conveys “WOMD”–you’ve really got to be in the mood to see your friends. Which means that the year everyone has consistently gotten together for weekly pool parties and 24 screening nights and pot cookie evenings is a GREAT year for Halloween partying. The year that half of your friends said, “But do you think there’s actually a viable concept there?” the entire time you were suicidally writing your book proposal is a BAD time for Halloween partying. The year everyone you knew discovered Guitar Hero is a FANTASTIC year for a Halloween bash. The year that you realized you’ve actually wasted friendship time and energy on stupid, selfish assholes that don’t care about an upcoming state election in which DISCRIMINATION LAWS are actually in play… a BAD year for a bash.
And then: Halloween has to fall on a good day. Tuesday sucks, Friday rules. Shit, I guess that means, as Ice Cube would say, “today was a good day.” Next…
Importantly: Funny and or really bad shit has to be going on in the world. How else will your friends come up with clever outfits? You can’t be Brangelina every year, but this go-around you can (and I’ve thought of doing this myself) be an Alaskan rape kit for sale. (**Note: if you’re interested in executing this, drop me an email! It’s easy! And, oddly enough, cheaper than an actual rape kit in Wasilla, Alaska**). Nothing could be worse than looking around the room and seeing a bunch of lame chicks dressed up as “Sexy _____” or, worse, “A Playboy bunny!…Again.”
Which brings me to the much more importantly: It’s all about the costume. You know the saying that goes something like, “If you don’t love yourself, you can’t love anyone else?” This is similar, except it’s more like, “If you aren’t in the awesome costume, the “Bingo!”, slam-dunk, thing-you’ve-always-wanted-to-be-or-at-least-for-the-last-two-weeks costume, you suck and so does Halloween.”
Which brings me to my costume. This year, I really have entertained the notion of dressing up as a $1300 rape kit (yes, it’s dark) that Sarah Palin would chirpily let me pay for, if I was one of her sad sack constituents. But that’s a little ominous for the kiddies, and I’m thrilled at the prospect of giving Snickers bars to little ones later this evening. So, on to the next.
Fortunately, there’s one costume I’ve always wanted to put together. I have wanted to dress up as an egg–just a simple, ordinary egg–for years. Don’t ask me why, that’s like asking why the sky is blue or why Asians are smart. I just want to be an egg. And don’t think I haven’t gotten asked the questions, or received plenty of unwarranted flack, for my obsession with this idea. “An egg? Why would ANYONE dress up as an egg? That’s not funny!”
Oh? Isn’t it?
So imagine me this week, happily constructing my egg costume, while singing Halloween jingles and eating Lawry’s-seasoned pumpkin seeds. And what photo do I come across but…
First Michelle Malkin usurps my birthday, and now this. I’m like Harry Potter with his undiscernable mental connection with Valdemort–intrinsically linked to my DISGRASIAN foes. What have I ever done to deserve this?
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