Category: Halloween

Want to be famous for a little while?
I’m a casting agent.
No, I don’t work for the studios.
I work for Dr. Midas Goldman.
He’s a magician with dead celebrities, making up their ravaged corpses for their last performance.
But sometimes, they’re too far gone, even for him.
That’s where I come in.
I bring in body doubles, he dresses them up.
You get the spotlight and a thousand bucks.
We need to knock you out, though, but we’ll bring you back.
Haven’t lost one yet.
Just don’t put it on your resume.
Or we bury you for real.

The next full moon is on February 14th.
Valentine’s Day.
John’s got a choice to make.
Tell his girlfriend that he’s a werewolf, or miss the most important night of the year.
Well, that and Christmas.
Oh, and her birthday.
He’s been a werewolf for years, and he’s never come up with a solution for this.
“I gotta work late.” doesn’t quite cut it on the weekend.
So, he picks the lonely ones. The ones without family.
The ones who won’t be missed when they vanish.
He buys the flowers, the card.
And knocks on her door.
“Hello there!”

My brothers made the best Halloween props.
They started with amazing costumes and haunted houses.
But one year, they built a little brother in a wheelchair.
It was so lifelike. But they made it developmentally challenged, like Timmy on that South Park show.
Big head, crippled spastic body. Only barking out a few words.
They took it Trick or Treating in a Batman mask.
“BA-MA!” the thing slurred.
Parents humored it, said how cute how special. Gave it candy.
It was humiliating!
This year, they’re re-engineering me into an animatronic Wolfman.
When they’re done, I’ll tear their throats out.

The Horror of Baker Hill hasn’t actually killed anyone.
Oh, there’s been lots of deaths up there.
But they’ve all been accidents.
Kids falling into ravines.
Heart conditions. Suffering asthma attacks.
Once you get to know him, The Horror is actually a decent guy.
He collects old baseball cards. And newspapers.
And chainsaws. (None of them actually work.)
What’s with the bone pile?
Well, he loves his pets so much, when he loses them, he tries his best at taxidermy.
But he’s not very good at it.
So, leave him alone.
And go back to your camp.
At Crystal Lake.

The vending machine
In the break room
Has so many slots
With chips, peanuts, and gum
But the best slot
Is Forty-Seven
It has all the candy bars
And chocolate goodies
It’s the Best of Halloween
You don’t need to dress up
Or ring a doorbell
Or say “Trick or Treat!”
Or go to more houses
Or share with your younger brother
Or let Mom inspect your candy
(Which really is to let her take the good stuff)
Put in a dollar
Push a button
And you get candy
Sweet candy
Wonderful candy
Forget saying “Happy Halloween!”
Say “Happy Forty-Seven!”

We call Derringer’s gun a derringer.
We call Zomboni’s ice resurfacer a Zamboni.
Why not call the monster a Frankenstein?
It’s all about branding, right?
Besides, why would he call it “The Creature?”
You can’t trademark “The Creature.”
If cheap Chinese knock-off creatures flooded the market, wouldn’t you hold out for a true Frankenstein?
I remember getting a build-your-own Frankenstein kit for Hanukkah one year.
Spread out over eight days.
But there was a misprint in the scroll, and we had to send it back.
After that, I got socks and underwear.

After the angry mob burned down Victor Frankenstein’s castle and lab, Igor the lab assistant was left homeless and unemployed.
Despite years of job experience, he had no formal training or academic credentials.
And his only reference died in the fire. Not that he could have used that reference anyway.
He got a job at the church as a gravedigger’s assistant.
Old habits die hard. Igor kept digging up fresh graves instead of digging new ones.
“Put them back,” said Father Gunther.
Igor started a flower garden, and he sells flowers to mourners.
“Yes, master,” he says, wrapping some lilies.

The vampire who lives next door is kind of an asshole.
So, I fucked with him all the time.
I gorilla glued his coffin shut.
I surrounded his room with mirrors.
I filled his air vents with garlic.
And hung crucifixes all over his place.
Then I ordered ten pizzas.
Oh, and let my dog crap all over his grass.
I let the air out of his tires.
And knocked over his mailbox.
It was while I was burning his house down when I realized something important.
That I was the asshole?
No. That I needed to stake his heart.

Do witches fly on broomsticks?
Yes. Yes, they do.
And they can be the traditional sweeping broom, or those squarish push-brooms.
Those push-brooms don’t fly as well, though.
What about brushes or dusters?
No. Because those have handles, not sticks.
When was the last time you saw a witch on a toilet brush?
That would be silly.
Nor can they fly on vacuum cleaners. Or dustbusters.
Those are machines. Because they may have handles, but they’re not natural wood.
This includes Swiffers. Because those don’t have natural handles.
And besides, they’re actually disposable mops, and witches don’t ride mops.

This year, Halloween is on a Saturday.
No wretched school lunch to throw up to make room for candy.
No hourlong bus ride home. No rushing your costume together.
No homework to get done for tomorrow.
And then… the doorbell rings?
It’s too early. Who can it be?
It’s Grandma, coming to visit.
They’ve been planning this for weeks.
No, you’re not going out.
Your mom made her tuna noodle casserole.
Worse than a barfed-up school lunch.
So, you whine. You yell.
You get sent to your room.
Good, you think, as you get dressed and sneak out the window.