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.



An Inspirational Mother’s Day Video

I lost it an hour or so ago, after the sixth or seventh “Moms are awesome!” post featuring some Mother’s Day Twitter hashtag or other, dispatched from a feed I quickly unfollowed.

If that’s not enough for you, Google Susan Smith, Andrea Yates, Clarnell Kemper, Joan Crawford.

For every mother as goddawful as that, there are probably ten or twenty who just beat the shit out of their children, sordidly and below the criminal radar.

For every one of those mothers, there’s probably hundreds who scream, manipulate, and harass their young into mental hospitals. I know at least one of those kids.

For every one of those, there’s likely thousands who find five ways a day to gouge and savage their children short of actually consigning them to a back ward. Because, you know, mothers are always right and becoming a mother — think about it, it’s a brutal devastation of the human body, an error of evolution which brought us to the upright posture but left us with a pelvis that can barely sustain the excretion of a half-formed progeny — entitles them to treat their children any way they want. Right?

But of course, on the second Sunday in May, we all pretend Mommy is a national hero. How else would florists make a living?

Happy Hallmark Holiday.