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Posts Tagged ‘halloween’

halloween mix

I do this every year. Almost forgot this year.

TSOL – Code Blue
Misfits – Halloween
Ministry – Every Day is Halloween
Oingo Boingo – Dead Man’s Party
The Cramps – I Was a Teenage Werewolf
The Who – Boris the Spider
Echo and the Bunnymen – Killing Moon
Deadbolt – Voodoo Trucker
Queens of the Stone Age – Burn the Witch
Type O Negative – Black #1
Slayer – Dead Skin Mask
Nick Cave – Red Right Hand
Wednesday 13 – I Walked with a Zombie
North American Halloween Prevention Initiative – Do They Know It’s Halloween
Ramones – Pet Sematary

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halloween fiction

I don’t like this story so much anymore, I think it needs work. I wrote it a long time ago, I probably should have reworked it, but eh. Someone suggested I run it and who am I to turn down a suggestion?

GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS

When the first pumpkins rose up, small and more brown than orange, Mr. Engle ripped them from their vines and handed them out to the neighborhood children. They simply laughed and threw them in the streets, more gestures aimed at ridiculing him. They squished the gifted pumpkins with bicycle tires and baseball bats and skateboards and soon the heavy tires of Explorers and Navigators laden with snotty babies and soccer equipment rode over the remnants of the pumpkins, plastering the seeds and skin into the pavement where they became an All You Can Eat Buffet for seagulls and crows.

He had offered the pumpkins as a Welcome-Wagon gift in reverse, thinking that giving a piece of himself, his garden, his babies, to the neighborhood kids would finally make him welcome. He eyed the mess in the road and realized otherwise.

Mr. Engle stalked back into his house, saying nothing to the ungrateful children who stood around watching the birds peck at the pumpkin guts, muttering rude nicknames for him under their breath.

Soon, the bigger pumpkins arrived, shapely and large and a proper shade of orange. The parents of the ungrateful little slobs walked past the house during their power strides around the block and complimented Mr. Engle on how large, how orange his pumpkins were.

One evening Mrs. Vallone stopped mid gait and gawked at the monstrous pumpkins rising from the garden like fall moons.

“That is quite a lovely pumpkin patch you have there.”
“Mmhmm” Mr. Engle refused to engage in conversation with a woman who could raise such a beast as Stan Vallone.
“They would really make excellent carving pumpkins,” she said, in the form of a request phrased as a nonchalant sentence. Mr. Engle wasn’t stupid. He knew what she was getting at.
“Well, Mrs. Vallone, I already handed out pumpkins and your son saw fit to smash his in the street and ride his skateboard through the innards.”
“Oh come on, now. Mr. Engle. Those weren’t good pumpkins. They were runts.”
“The point is,” he said, ignoring her insult, “they were a gift from me and they smashed them right in front of me.”
“Oh, Jesusmaryjoseph, get over it. A gift.” She rolled her eyes.
Mr. Engle turned to her and said “Your son and his friends are snotty little prigs, Mrs. Vallone. And I can see the rotten apples do not fall far from the tree.”
Mrs. Vallone gasped a bit and as her mouth hung open, waiting for her brain to fire off the correct indignant verbiage, Mr. Engle stalked away into his sunroom, slamming the screen door behind him. The thin walls of the room shuddered and Mrs. Vallone stood by the pumpkin patch a moment before she stuck up her middle finger at the space where Mr. Engle berated her.

“You know what?” she said to nobody in particular. “Fuck him.” She bent down and pulled the largest, smoothest, orangest pumpkin off of its vine. She scanned the street and looked toward Mr. Engle’s sunroom to make sure no one had seen her and then she trotted down Williams Court, balancing the pumpkin on her hip like a weighty laundry basket, smug in her vindictiveness.

She had intended to carve the pumpkin, even gave thought to carving a likeness of Mr. Engle’s face into it, but the thing was so huge, so perfect that Mrs. Vallone, ever the happy homemaker, decided to bake a delicious pumpkin pie. No, no..not even a pumpkin pie. Pumpkin muffins, so all of Stan’s little friends could surreptitiously share in the bounty of Mr. Engle’s gardening skills.

As Mrs. Vallone was happily buzzing around her kitchen in her little checkered apron lining up the baking soda and flour and cinnamon and leveling off the brown sugar, Mr. Engle was standing in his garden in the very spot where a rather large and rather orange pumpkin once lay. He was befuddled, flummoxed and, after doing a sort of math theorem in his head having to do with pumpkins and Mrs. Vallone, enraged.

Mr. Engle was not the sort to let his rage get the better of him. He simmered and stewed and stroked his scraggly gray beard for an inordinate amount of time, standing right there in the garden, the sun slowly sinking, and it was not until the darkest of sunset shadows was cast over the shallow imprint of where his missing pumpkin once was that Mr. Engle did a slow walk back through his yard, into the sunroom and down, down, down the winding, splintered steps into his workshop.

“Best cupcakes EVER, mom!”
“Totally, Mrs. V. I don’t even like pumpkin and these taste amazing.”

Mrs. Vallone beamed a thousand watt smile across her kitchen at the boys.
“What’s your secret, Mrs. V?”
Should she tell them? Oh, how could she not?
“The secret, boys, is Mr. Engle.” She put her hand up nervously to her mouth like a dainty woman about to let loose a forbidden word. “I stole the pumpkin from him!” She nearly giggled.

The boys howled with laughter and lined up to smack a high-five into Mrs. V’s manicured hand.
“Way to go, mom.”
“Yea, way to give it back to that old creep, Mrs.V.”
“Fuck, yea,” said Mrs. V., and the boys nodded approvingly.

—-

Stan Vallone woke at 1am with a need, a desire to see Mr. Engle’s pumpkins. There was no rhyme nor reason to his need, it just was. He rose out of bed, slipped into his sweatshirt and headed down the stairs and out the door. Four minutes later, his mother, struck by the same sudden need, also walked out the door. In the street they met Kevin and Ryan and Brad and a couple of other kids, all with vapid smiles and dazed eyes. Kevin said, “Nice muffins, Mrs. V.,” and the others mumbled the same.

They walked like a troop of sleepwalkers, Mrs. Vallone their yawning, lumbering den mother, until they came to the corner of Williams and Forest, where Mr. Engle’s house and yard filled the expanse of the curve. They each, without knowing why or questioning their own motives, straddled over the wood post fence and tromped across the lawn toward the pumpkin patch. And one by one they filed right into the patch, each boy, and then Mrs. V., digging their heels into a spot in the ground, burrowing their feet in the damp soil.

As the minutes and hours wore on, they became a bizarre garden of flesh and bone, vines trailing up and around their legs, their skin becoming like vinyl, soft and lumpy and orange, their faces contorting until they disappeared completely, just rounded lines forming up and down around their heads. And all the while they could think and breathe and see and hear. They could not move, they could not scream, they could not escape the fate that Mr. Engle had set them on. They could only stand and witness what was happening to each other. They could only glance – while their eyes could still see – and see skin turning orange and legs entwining with leaves and feel the pain of transformation, a pain that Mr. Engle probably could have lessened but chose not to.

Mr. Engle stood silently in the sunroom, watching through the screen door. He waited while the moon moved through thin clouds, shedding odd light and shadows upon the planted humans. He waited while a light rain fell, while the clouds moved, while the moon waned, and he didn’t move from his perched place at the door until the last of Mrs. Vallone’s face was obscured by a thick skin of pumpkin flesh.

He pulled the boys from the patch first, so Mrs. Vallone could watch each boy being ripped from the ground and dragged into the house. He saved Stan for last and for a brief moment held him upright in front of the Mrs. V. pumpkin and then chided himself for gloating, for wasting valuable time. When the boys were all dragged down to the workroom, Mr. Engle came back for Mrs. V., and whispered to her in a sing-song fashion as he slid her across the lawn, into the sunroom and down, down, down the stairs.

“Do you like Halloween, Mrs. Vallone, do you?”
Clunk, her body went on the stairs
“It’s my favorite holiday.”
Clunk
“I love to decorate.”
Clunk
“Especially with pumpkins.”
Clunk
“Lovely, lovely pumpkins.”
Clunk
“You know what I like? Scarecrows with pumpkin heads! That’s just spooky, don’t you think, Mrs. Vallone?”
Clunk

Finally, Mrs. V. was heaved onto the pile of pumpkin boys, all the while screaming inside her head, Nononononononononooooooooo, but unheard by anyone but herself.

—–

“Don’t you just love Halloween, Mr. Roberts?” Mr. Engle was standing on his porch, talking to the postman.
“I do, Mr. Engle. I love the weather, the atmosphere. It’s a great time of year.”

He handed Mr. Engle a few bills and the latest copy of People. “And I just love those pumpkin heads on your scarecrows!” He looked over toward Mr. Engle’s garden, where a row of small scarecrows and one larger one hung on makeshift crosses, each with a pumpkin head, each head with a face carved into a frozen grimace of horror and pain. “That ought to scare the bejesus out of the obnoxious boys around here.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Engle. “I’m sure.”

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halloween fiction

I don’t like this story so much anymore, I think it needs work. I wrote it a long time ago, I probably should have reworked it, but eh. Someone suggested I run it and who am I to turn down a suggestion?

GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS

When the first pumpkins rose up, small and more brown than orange, Mr. Engle ripped them from their vines and handed them out to the neighborhood children. They simply laughed and threw them in the streets, more gestures aimed at ridiculing him. They squished the gifted pumpkins with bicycle tires and baseball bats and skateboards and soon the heavy tires of Explorers and Navigators laden with snotty babies and soccer equipment rode over the remnants of the pumpkins, plastering the seeds and skin into the pavement where they became an All You Can Eat Buffet for seagulls and crows.

He had offered the pumpkins as a Welcome-Wagon gift in reverse, thinking that giving a piece of himself, his garden, his babies, to the neighborhood kids would finally make him welcome. He eyed the mess in the road and realized otherwise.

Mr. Engle stalked back into his house, saying nothing to the ungrateful children who stood around watching the birds peck at the pumpkin guts, muttering rude nicknames for him under their breath.

Soon, the bigger pumpkins arrived, shapely and large and a proper shade of orange. The parents of the ungrateful little slobs walked past the house during their power strides around the block and complimented Mr. Engle on how large, how orange his pumpkins were.

One evening Mrs. Vallone stopped mid gait and gawked at the monstrous pumpkins rising from the garden like fall moons.

“That is quite a lovely pumpkin patch you have there.”
“Mmhmm” Mr. Engle refused to engage in conversation with a woman who could raise such a beast as Stan Vallone.
“They would really make excellent carving pumpkins,” she said, in the form of a request phrased as a nonchalant sentence. Mr. Engle wasn’t stupid. He knew what she was getting at.
“Well, Mrs. Vallone, I already handed out pumpkins and your son saw fit to smash his in the street and ride his skateboard through the innards.”
“Oh come on, now. Mr. Engle. Those weren’t good pumpkins. They were runts.”
“The point is,” he said, ignoring her insult, “they were a gift from me and they smashed them right in front of me.”
“Oh, Jesusmaryjoseph, get over it. A gift.” She rolled her eyes.
Mr. Engle turned to her and said “Your son and his friends are snotty little prigs, Mrs. Vallone. And I can see the rotten apples do not fall far from the tree.”
Mrs. Vallone gasped a bit and as her mouth hung open, waiting for her brain to fire off the correct indignant verbiage, Mr. Engle stalked away into his sunroom, slamming the screen door behind him. The thin walls of the room shuddered and Mrs. Vallone stood by the pumpkin patch a moment before she stuck up her middle finger at the space where Mr. Engle berated her.

“You know what?” she said to nobody in particular. “Fuck him.” She bent down and pulled the largest, smoothest, orangest pumpkin off of its vine. She scanned the street and looked toward Mr. Engle’s sunroom to make sure no one had seen her and then she trotted down Williams Court, balancing the pumpkin on her hip like a weighty laundry basket, smug in her vindictiveness.

She had intended to carve the pumpkin, even gave thought to carving a likeness of Mr. Engle’s face into it, but the thing was so huge, so perfect that Mrs. Vallone, ever the happy homemaker, decided to bake a delicious pumpkin pie. No, no..not even a pumpkin pie. Pumpkin muffins, so all of Stan’s little friends could surreptitiously share in the bounty of Mr. Engle’s gardening skills.

As Mrs. Vallone was happily buzzing around her kitchen in her little checkered apron lining up the baking soda and flour and cinnamon and leveling off the brown sugar, Mr. Engle was standing in his garden in the very spot where a rather large and rather orange pumpkin once lay. He was befuddled, flummoxed and, after doing a sort of math theorem in his head having to do with pumpkins and Mrs. Vallone, enraged.

Mr. Engle was not the sort to let his rage get the better of him. He simmered and stewed and stroked his scraggly gray beard for an inordinate amount of time, standing right there in the garden, the sun slowly sinking, and it was not until the darkest of sunset shadows was cast over the shallow imprint of where his missing pumpkin once was that Mr. Engle did a slow walk back through his yard, into the sunroom and down, down, down the winding, splintered steps into his workshop.

“Best cupcakes EVER, mom!”
“Totally, Mrs. V. I don’t even like pumpkin and these taste amazing.”

Mrs. Vallone beamed a thousand watt smile across her kitchen at the boys.
“What’s your secret, Mrs. V?”
Should she tell them? Oh, how could she not?
“The secret, boys, is Mr. Engle.” She put her hand up nervously to her mouth like a dainty woman about to let loose a forbidden word. “I stole the pumpkin from him!” She nearly giggled.

The boys howled with laughter and lined up to smack a high-five into Mrs. V’s manicured hand.
“Way to go, mom.”
“Yea, way to give it back to that old creep, Mrs.V.”
“Fuck, yea,” said Mrs. V., and the boys nodded approvingly.

—-

Stan Vallone woke at 1am with a need, a desire to see Mr. Engle’s pumpkins. There was no rhyme nor reason to his need, it just was. He rose out of bed, slipped into his sweatshirt and headed down the stairs and out the door. Four minutes later, his mother, struck by the same sudden need, also walked out the door. In the street they met Kevin and Ryan and Brad and a couple of other kids, all with vapid smiles and dazed eyes. Kevin said, “Nice muffins, Mrs. V.,” and the others mumbled the same.

They walked like a troop of sleepwalkers, Mrs. Vallone their yawning, lumbering den mother, until they came to the corner of Williams and Forest, where Mr. Engle’s house and yard filled the expanse of the curve. They each, without knowing why or questioning their own motives, straddled over the wood post fence and tromped across the lawn toward the pumpkin patch. And one by one they filed right into the patch, each boy, and then Mrs. V., digging their heels into a spot in the ground, burrowing their feet in the damp soil.

As the minutes and hours wore on, they became a bizarre garden of flesh and bone, vines trailing up and around their legs, their skin becoming like vinyl, soft and lumpy and orange, their faces contorting until they disappeared completely, just rounded lines forming up and down around their heads. And all the while they could think and breathe and see and hear. They could not move, they could not scream, they could not escape the fate that Mr. Engle had set them on. They could only stand and witness what was happening to each other. They could only glance – while their eyes could still see – and see skin turning orange and legs entwining with leaves and feel the pain of transformation, a pain that Mr. Engle probably could have lessened but chose not to.

Mr. Engle stood silently in the sunroom, watching through the screen door. He waited while the moon moved through thin clouds, shedding odd light and shadows upon the planted humans. He waited while a light rain fell, while the clouds moved, while the moon waned, and he didn’t move from his perched place at the door until the last of Mrs. Vallone’s face was obscured by a thick skin of pumpkin flesh.

He pulled the boys from the patch first, so Mrs. Vallone could watch each boy being ripped from the ground and dragged into the house. He saved Stan for last and for a brief moment held him upright in front of the Mrs. V. pumpkin and then chided himself for gloating, for wasting valuable time. When the boys were all dragged down to the workroom, Mr. Engle came back for Mrs. V., and whispered to her in a sing-song fashion as he slid her across the lawn, into the sunroom and down, down, down the stairs.

“Do you like Halloween, Mrs. Vallone, do you?”
Clunk, her body went on the stairs
“It’s my favorite holiday.”
Clunk
“I love to decorate.”
Clunk
“Especially with pumpkins.”
Clunk
“Lovely, lovely pumpkins.”
Clunk
“You know what I like? Scarecrows with pumpkin heads! That’s just spooky, don’t you think, Mrs. Vallone?”
Clunk

Finally, Mrs. V. was heaved onto the pile of pumpkin boys, all the while screaming inside her head, Nononononononononooooooooo, but unheard by anyone but herself.

—–

“Don’t you just love Halloween, Mr. Roberts?” Mr. Engle was standing on his porch, talking to the postman.
“I do, Mr. Engle. I love the weather, the atmosphere. It’s a great time of year.”

He handed Mr. Engle a few bills and the latest copy of People. “And I just love those pumpkin heads on your scarecrows!” He looked over toward Mr. Engle’s garden, where a row of small scarecrows and one larger one hung on makeshift crosses, each with a pumpkin head, each head with a face carved into a frozen grimace of horror and pain. “That ought to scare the bejesus out of the obnoxious boys around here.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Engle. “I’m sure.”

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more halloween fun stuff

Best. Costume. Ever.

More awesome costumes at Retrocrush.

This Is Halloween, from one of the best movies ever, Nightmare Before Christmas:

Ministry – Every Day is Halloween (from the album they refuse to recognize but which I consider new wave gold)

Watch Night of the Living Dead online.

Jack Chick tracts and Halloween

Ghost stories

If you’ve got any cool Halloween links, stories, whatever, share them.

Genni has some Halloween pics up. She makes an awesome Glinda.

The Barker’s Blog has some great Halloween content. Just click and scroll, scroll, scroll.

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it's just a beast under your bedHappy Halloween! My favorite day of the year is finally here. We’re having an office party today and a lot of my co-workers are dressing up. Me, I’m going as me. Had I read Kevin’s posts about last minute Halloween costumes earlier than this morning, I might have gone as Mr. Baked Potato Head.

Kids today are lucky. They have so much more to choose from, costume-wise than we did. They also have a better class of costumes. If you are anywhere near my age, surely you remember those plastic masks, the ones that left you a mere pinhole in which to breath fresh air. They were so tight against your face you could feel your own breath bouncing back at you every time you exhaled. And that cloying, synthetic smell entered every pore in your face so you smelled like plastic for the rest of the night. I used to wake up late on Halloween night gasping for air, thinking I still had that I Dream of Jeanie mask on.

In a way, Halloween was better back then. Despite the poorly constructed costumes, we had no fear. Oh sure, we had fear of ghosts and vampires and whatever else was supposed to be hauting us on Halloween, but we didn’t have fear of our own neighbors or fear of poisoned candy. We certainly didn’t have the fear of offending anyone that limits the costumes kids are allowed to wear to school today. We could be as bloody and gory as we wanted. We could be offensive in ways that would have the ACLU tackling you in the street in 2007; So we dressed up for Halloween as gypsies, Indians, mental patients, bums and hobos (the latter two later known as The Homeless or The Housing Deprived) and other stereotypical costumes. No one really paid attention to the fact that we might have been insulting someone because no one cared. And it wasn’t our intent to insult, it was our intent to just be someone else for a day. Halloween was about candy and dressing up and being scared. End of story.

Most of the boys at the time did the usual horror costumes: Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy and the proverbial white-sheeted ghost. They would jump out from behind the bushes and scare the girls and we would scream in exaggerated fright and run to the doorstep of the next house on the block.

We had parades at school and some of the kids would march around with fake, dripping blood and rubber masks with mutilated eyeballs. The goriness was all part of the fun. That’s what Halloween was for: shrieking and screaming through the neighborhood and finishing it off with a family viewing of Chiller Theater, munching on the candy loot while hanging onto Mom in fright.

But times have changed and we’ll have none of that gory, scary stuff anymore. Kids are vulnerable and impressionable, don’t you know? The blood might scare them. The costumes might offend someone. I mean, what if some kid in your school had his whole family murdered by a crazed ax-wielding monster? Don’t you think that costume would make him feel sad, Johnny?

But that was back in the innocent days of yore. Back before the razor blades in apples ruined Halloween for all of us. Hey, here’s a bit of trivia for you. Did you know that THERE WAS NEVER A RECORDED CASE OF A RAZOR BLADE IN AN APPLE ON HALLOWEEN? Yea. An urban legend set the tone for future years for this holiday.

Anyhow, if I were a kid today, I would be dressing up as Captain Underpants, just to piss off stuffy old principals who forget that part of being a kid is laughing at each other. Which begs the question (really, it does!):

If you were, today, a seven year old kid headed out for trick or treating, what would your costume be (taking into consideration what’s popular in the realm of mass commercialism in 2007)?

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damn the man, save the daylight

Once in a while you come across an article so stupid, so profoundly idiotic, that you have to check the URL a couple of time to make sure you’re not on some bad satire site. I did that last night and, after five URL checks, was still not convinced I could possibly be at real news site. Granted, it’s not the New York Times I’m looking at here but….still.

The article is titled A Time of Darkness. Intriguing enough. Could be about a lot of things. Let’s dig deeper and see what we have here.

It’s a trick, a treat or a “nightmare.”

The government changes time.

It’s an article about Daylight Savings Time. Ok, it’s that time of year. Lots of people will be writing about that subject.

For the first time ever, daylight-saving time was pushed back to the first Sunday in November this year. The sun won’t set till 7:30 p.m. on Halloween. In some places, it won’t rise until 7:30 a.m.

Well, yes. That’s the point. And that’s a good thing, right? For years, people have been complaining that putting DST ahead of Halloween was a stupid idea, giving children that much less daylight in which to do their trick or treating. Because we all know that in today’s America, children are precious little creatures who should not be allowed out after dark because there are predators lurking at every corner. But that’s for later. Let’s continue with this.

Area psychologists say it will also make us stressed, leave some depressed and possibly weaken our immune systems. And we might never recover.

Ah, I love fright journalism. Let’s take something really mundane and make it absolutely horrifying. Let’s play on the culture of fear in America and give the people what they want – something else to get hyped up about, something else to make them running for their Xanax. We’re talking about an extra hour in the day here, people. One hour. A little more sunlight in your life. Wasn’t there a big study a few years ago, when Seasonal Affective Disorder was all the rage, that said sunlight was a natural anti-depressant? And now some extra light in our day is going to make us sick?

Let’s visit an area person to hear their take on this monstrosity of time being forced upon us:

In short, it’s a “nightmare” for John Olson of Lower Southampton.

“The changing all of the clocks in my house, including the three wall clocks, stove, microwave, TV, TiVo, DVD player, VCR, clock radio, two wristwatches, two cars, two computers, two cell phones, the indoor and outdoor thermometer and clock, outdoor light timers and security system takes about two hours twice a year,” Olson said.

Not for nothing, John, but I do believe you are engaging in a little hyperbole there. First of all, your TiVo, computers and cell phones should be changing time on their own. And three wall clocks in addition to the other electronic clocks in the house seems a little excessive, no? Maybe you should cut down on those luxuries, John. Really, with at TiVo and a DVD player, what do you need a VCR for? I’m sure your 70’s porn collection is readily available on DVD. And no one ever sets their VCR clock, anyhow. As for this all taking two hours of your time to reset? You’re either retarded or exaggerating. Wait, there’s more from Mr. Olson:

“Let’s say some poor citizen gets it wrong and always sets his clock ahead. After about 12 years the government will have stolen a whole day from this unfortunate soul,”

Are you fucking kidding me? Not only is this the most ridiculous statement I’ve heard since Paris Hilton said the last thing she said, I can’t imagine why any journalist would take this quote and put it in his article, unless it was to quietly ridicule the person he interviewed. Or maybe the author is so furious with his employer for making him write this filler piece that he decided to make quotes up. Because this can’t be real. In case it is, I’ll spell it out for you, Mr. Olson: IF A PERSON GETS IT WRONG FOR 12 YEARS IN A ROW HE DESERVES TO HAVE THE TIME “STOLEN: FROM HIM. Not even a zombie would want the brain of that man.

Let’s now visit poor Debbie Shuster.

“I’m 49 years old and all my life Halloween has always been in the dark,” she said. “Now, the kids will be out trick-or-treating and the sun will still be up. The lights and decorations — you won’t even be able to see them. I’m going to have all these nice little pumpkins outside and people won’t even notice them,” she said.

So, it’s all about YOU, Debbie? Never mind that the little tykes get to enjoy trick or treating for an extra hour (as mentioned previously, children disappear in the dark). Debbie seems overly concerned with her pumpkins. Hey, you know what, Debbie? It will STILL get dark. People will STILL see your pumpkins. We’re not talking 30 days of light, here. Just shut up and go back to carving your adorable little pumpkins while your 72 cats keep you company.

Later on in the article, the author talks to a professional something or other:

“I can’t recommend people to stay in bed, when they have to get up for work,” she added. “If you’re sleep is screwed up, then I’d recommend more emphasis on exercise and nutritious meals.”

What’s wrong with this picture, dear readers? Come on, you see it. YOUR. YOUR. IF YOUR SLEEP IS SCREWED UP. Well, I can see I’m not dealing with a four star newspaper here. So maybe I should cut them some slack. If both the author and the copy editor let that gross miscarriage of grammar usage get by, I can’t expect much in the way of a decent story.

I ran out of things to make fun of, anyhow. The rest of the article was just psychobabble about how breathing affects your every day life. Or something like that. It doesn’t matter. The important thing here is that you are sufficiently worried about something else, now. Who cares if it’s nonsense? What does it matter if some wannabe J. Jonah Jameson told a fresh-faced young reporter to write something terrifying about Halloween and the reporter, being an anti-government kind of guy, made up a whole scenario about how the MAN is trying to steal your time, ruin your Halloween and force you to reprogram your VCR. This article is a call to arms for Bucks County, PA! Everyone revolt against the time change! IT WILL AFFECT THE ROOSTERS! WONT’ SOMEONE THINK OF THE ROOSTERS?

Listen, Mr. Author. We have enough crap to worry about. Enough stuff being shoved down our throats by the nightly news anchors who think that scaring people for Halloween means frightening naive parents into thinking their children are going to DIE. The costumes are flammable, there may be a sexual predator living next door to you, there are razor blades in apples and cyanide in Smarties and burning leaves give off toxic smoke. AND, little Johnny’s Freddy Kruger costume is offending to the delicate sensibilities of your neighbors, your celebration of a Pagan ritual is causing the little children next door to live in a hostile environment, your Halloween display is offensive to the real witches and how DARE you give out candy with peanuts in it? Don’t you know that there just might be some kid around here who is slightly allergic to nuts and his mother will sue your ass for handing out Reeses peanut butter cups?

I really think it’s the goal of the media, from Rupert Murdhoch’s empire right down to the Bucks County rag to suck the fun out of every damn thing that was ever enjoyable, while raising up the culture of fear.

Well, fuck you. I’m going to enjoy my Halloween. I’m going to wear a scary, gory costume and scare the bejesus out of little kids because they LIKE that. I’m going to hand out candy that will rot their teeth and laugh at the mothers who bring their kids trick or treating to the mall because it’s “safer” than going to the homes of the neighbors you live next to every single day of your lives. And I’m going to enjoy the hell out of the extra hour of sunlight and when I’m driving to work in the morning and it’s still dark out I’m going to put on my sunglasses anyhow, raise my fist through the sunroof and shout DAMN THE MAN!

Happy Halloween.

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dinner blogging and a new recipe request

dinner

I decided that I’ll eventually make every chicken recipe offered up in this thread. I started at the top tonight, with Josh’s asian type chicken. I modified it just a bit, by making two separate sauces. The one with the Rooster Sauce will be served on the side for Todd and I, as I really don’t expect the kids will like how hot that came out.

We haven’t eaten yet, still waiting for Todd to get home, but I’ll update you as to the results. Because I know your entire day hinges on whether or not my family likes this chicken.

Now, for a new recipe begging.

We’re having a Halloween party at work. Everyone has to bring something in, and it needs to be Halloween themed. It can be either an appetizer type food or a dessert. So I’m looking for something that tastes good, is semi easy to make and fits in with the seasonal theme.

One woman is brining in something she calls Eye of Newt – bacon wrapped prunes.

Ummm……yea. Sounds great.

Please help me come up with something better than that.

Difficulty: I do NOT want to make Rice Krispie treats.

Update: Dinner was a success.

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