The Bullshit Is Starting

TAP Beer of the Week: Smashed Pumpkin Ale

The sun is going down and I spotted a few people with bags across the block, so I guess I have to stop whatever I want to be doing now, sit down in the living room — I’ve already locked the frustrated cats behind closed doors to prevent ninja escapes — and wait for the troops of little assholes that I don’t know from Adam to knock on my door extorting candy.

Every year someone tells me “you could just go out.” Where? This is my house. I would like to enjoy spending time in it. There is nothing to enjoy about having to jump up every five or ten minutes to give cheap crappy candy to kids you don’t know, because I am pretty careful not to know any kids, when you are hungry for dinner and would just like to read your book afterward. And fake enthusiasm for their costumes, maybe two of which in an evening actually amount to something. You are stuck with this, because you don’t want to get eggs thrown at your house for refusing to play the stupid game. Trust me, you never want to have to get dried egg out of a porch screen. It takes weeks.

How did this get so out of control? The time change — which is nonsense in itself — has now been orchestrated around it. God forbid any of the littlest maggots should have to go out in the dark.

I think I am out of politics for good, but if I ever run for anything myself — back when I was managing the campaign of an all American whack job, people used to suggest the idea — I am running on a platform that includes the abolition of Trick Or Treating. There will also be condign penalties for using quotation marks for emphasis and the incorrect placement of apostrophes, but unlike the goddam candy raiders, offenders will be eligible for parole.



I Have To Practice This

I had already walked out of a discount department store because the high-pitched squalling of some infant in a cart was making me bugfuck, and there in the lobby of my bank was some kiddygartner sitting with her feet dangling off one of the seats, lolling against an older sister and wailing a long, thready, tuneless complaint about whatever. Her mom, deeply involved at a teller window, didn’t sound like the sharpest knife in the drawer either and I could tell it would be a while. As the whine spiked for the second time I snapped my head around in explosive frustration. I was not trying to make a face of any kind, but I must have given the kid the Crippling Stinkeye Of Thor because her eyes got wide and she Shut. Up. Completely. Until I finished my transaction at the window she barely issued another murmur.

I have to figure out how to do this at will. Not least because it’s Halloween night again and pretty soon the little bastards will be knocking at the door demanding their ransom. I got their number — I’ve had candy left over for the last five years and this year there was really no point adding to the reserve supply. Packaged Halloween candy is such crap I doubt they can tell the difference; it’s been down in the spare fridge anyway.

They’d probably think the Valhalla Glare was just part of the Halloween fun though. Maybe I should get a paintball gun.


It is amazing how when you have a third cat, there is twice as much cat crap to scoop and flush as there is when you have two cats. I have heard that they eat extra to “bulk up” when there is competition in the territory. No one is gaining weight, so maybe this is where it is all going.

I am a waste not, want not kind of person, and for a moment as I was addressing this chore, I thought of this recipe

and then of Tootsie Rolls and all the open trick or treat bags that will be shoved at me in a couple of hours.

I really considered the possibilities for a moment, but I already bought frigging Baby Ruths for the little bastards.

Year Three

I think they’re done. I only had four visits from the little bastards this year, two or three per visit (no one I recognized), meaning I gave away, at two apiece, only about twenty hits of diabetes-in-training.

The Kit Kats, at least, have been in the back of the fridge since 2008.  At this rate my supply will hold out for a couple more years.

Yeah, I used to give away “healthy” stuff until I realized it amounted to shoveling shit against the tide. In the end, all I ask is that no one eggs my house or tears up my flowers. If they eat it all by midnight and puke, on their own heads be it.

Now all I have to do is hunker down and grit my teeth until Christmas is over. Anyone who wants a leather strap bitten through, send by Priority Mail.

Brat Candy (II)

I got lucky at the last minute. After another day of forgetting to buy protection candy for the little bastards, I remembered that last year, I overbought and stuffed the remains in a plastic sack in the fridge downstairs (for weird reasons, I have always lived in a house with a spare basement refrigerator).

There were three varieties and the total weight was a good three pounds. I judged it would hold out, especially if no one got more than one piece. In fact, as of quarter to nine or so, there have been about four knocks and perhaps ten squirts in costume.

Good job. This supply ought to hold out to next year, and maybe even to the year after. Back in the fridge.

Brat Candy

Hard upon today’s encounter with Pestilent Child comes the realization that it is nearly October thirty-first and I have not yet gotten a bag of Brat Candy.

For a while I tried handing out nominally healthy treats, like little sesame candies from the co-op health food store, until I realized it was like throwing a vitamin tablet into a shit sandwich, anyway. The little creeps are out to gorge themselves on mass-produced sugar bombs, and nothing I say or do in the ten seconds we are face to face is going to change that. So I just started buying bagged Brat Candy, trying to avoid the most unpleasant corporate manufacturers (like Mars, which does sordid animal testing) and, actually, looking for the least appetizing candy I can find, hoping they’ll avoid my house next year.

Yeah, I’m a Halloween Grinch. But consider: I do business at my residence. One night a year, I have to scratch evening clients or else interrupt appointments so the little bastards won’t egg my house later (it’s happened). I have to lock the cats in back rooms so they won’t get out. All so a couple of dozen kids that I’ve never seen before and will never see again can put on pre-fabbed costumes and collect a piece of candy that I wouldn’t feed to a dog.

No wonder I hate it.

I think I’ll Google “bad tasting candy.”