What the #$&%!!??: Hey-Get a load of Me! I’m a Pumpkin!!!

Rants by Michael Greenwood
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Coming home the other night I tripped over the unexpected corpse of Nick Nolte. Not the real Nolte (I don't think) but rather a replicated Prince of Tides that had spilled over onto my front lawn from my neighbors enormous Halloween display that seems to grow exponentially with each passing year.

Now I'm certainly willing to entertain the possibility that I may just be a crabby old bastard but I remember a time when full blown attempts to out decorate the neighbors was an activity reserved for Christmas and Halloween was a holiday for kids. In an era where cowboys and Indians is deemed inappropriate and youngsters are cajoled to go outside and play habitat for humanity they no longer ring my bell October 31st mainly because they have to be safely back inside the house by no later than October 30th. Last Halloween, not expecting to be at home, I left a bowl outside my door containing 4 Snickers bars and a sign that said TAKE ONE.

When I returned home later that evening two were left though one had a bite taken out of it. Not much of a turnout. Next year I plan to fill the bowl with Ridlin in hopes of boosting the numbers.

Gone are the days of rascally urchins out way past dark, some toting rolls of toilet paper or a few dozen eggs and up to no good. Smashed pumpkins have been usurped by smashed adults-usually sporting last year’s bridesmaid dress or an obvious visual pun like cereal killer or Freudian slip. New Years Eve in drag.

With the kiddies safely stashed away at home with Chucky or Michael Meyers and out of the reach of all the pedophiles that the 24 hour news channels assure us lurk behind every bush, Mom and Dad are now free to repair to the local watering hole in hopes of snagging a portion of that big cash prize given out for "best costume" Three inches of latex and makeup to hide behind provide them with the opportunity to exhibit all of the lewd behavior and alcohol fueled idiocy that they secretly wish they had the guts to display on a regular basis.

The only possible upside to this scenario, namely tasty crumpets in their old girl scout uniforms or French maid attire, is overshadowed by the fact that they are generally hugely outnumbered by those in attendance with way too much to reveal revealing way too much. Some things should really be left unseen. I mean WHAT THE $*#@!!%$# !!! If I had even the slightest interest in observing the mating habits of whales in fishnet I would relocate to Japan! Grim Reapers and headless horsemen also serve as a blaring distraction from the truly frightening such as the fact that more Americans are consumed with Marie Osmond hitting the deck on Dancing with the Stars than are concerned that 23% of the polar icecap has already melted away or that the next trickster to show up at your door could be Homeland Security coming to take you away for googling Al Queda on a Sunday.

If all of you attention starved closet transvestites out there want to do something really bold and original why not try donning Marges pantyhose the other 364 days of the year (deep inside you wish you could) and leave Halloween for the kids.