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Mr. Halloween

28 October 2010 Lies and Entertainment 4,509 views 2 CommentsPrint This Post Print This Post Email This Post Email This Post

I am SO into Halloween, they call me…Mr. Halloween. I LOVE Halloween. Not like mama-child love. Not like puppy love. Not even like how you might love Ore-Ida Tater Tots, but loving love. Loving Halloween like I would love hours upon hours of flirting and courting that would evolve into intense heat-filled kissing and nipping romantic communion with Jessica Fletcher, I mean Alba. Oh heck, either one. Both at once? Me, the cream filling in a Jessica Oreo Love Cookie. Hey, why not toss in a Simpson? Nothing too hard to handle for Mr. Halloween.

In the morning, I will head to Whole Foods and buy a big orange squash. We Halloween people call it a pumpkin. It is the centerpiece of our holiday. I wonder when people fashion faces into pumpkins, do they subconsciously think of a particular terrifying mug like a boss or Jim Belushi after a night of too many Red Bull and Jagermeister shooters at Wayne Newton’s Las Vegas ranch? Danke Shoen, indeed.

Because I’m Mr. Halloween I’m expected to carve elaborate faces and I do. I start by clearing the crevices out with a glycerin-based cleanser. Gently caress the orange skin. I think of the “Jersey Shore” girls, only much much prettier. I make a woman’s face. A ravishing woman’s face that soon I fall in love with. And I know she loves me back even though I am repeatedly sticking a large kitchen knife into her head with plans to scoop out her insides to bake into a pie or muffin. Afterwards, I stick fire inside her hollow skull and put her on my porch to scare the children. (It’s the only way.) And while I understand that this is a fine metaphor for what true love is all about isn’t it still … scary?

Contrary to idle chatter, Mr. Halloween does not hate children, but after years of alcohol-soaked parties (literally) and fetish balls (figuratively), I have to wonder why we even let the kids get involved at all. Flammable plastic masks and smocks? That can’t be fun. And the pagan parts (which Mr. Halloween loves) can’t be easy for Bob and Jane Christian-Perfect-Family. How do they explain Casper the Friendly Ghost at Bible school on Sunday? Hey, what did Casper die of, anyway? That’s a tough one for the parents. (Rumor: accidental overdose of Bennies). Poor parents. Then, all night they search the Chick-o-Sticks and Zagnuts for odd white powder and razors when they should be out with me, Mr. Halloween!

Sometimes people ask me, what does Mr. Halloween dress up as? Surprisingly, I don’t dress up at all for Halloween because I ultimately decided it was redundant for a manic-depressive to wear a costume.

And yes, I do like witches. Good witches or bad, so long as they’re wicked. You can meet the best witches at Denny’s. O, Wicked Witch! Black lipsticked witch. Black shirted. Black tighted. Black socked. Black booted. Black haired. Black eye-lined, eye-balled. Witch! Black scrunchy on your white wrist witch. White, white face eating your Grand Slam #4 breakfast, heartily. I kneel before your leather-cosseted bosom. You make me want to go to Urban Outfitters and buy a “Goth Milk” baby-Tee. (They were designed by my mentor, “Le Goat” Gregory Crosby, a level-three impaler, part-time ghoul from the Catskills and my supervisor at Best Buy.)

It’s true. I wasn’t always Mr. Halloween, I had to learn to embrace the holy-day. When I was a boy I was afraid of all the bigger boys dressed with their masks and muscles. My mama used to dress me as a pumpkin or a little girl. One year we were too poor to afford a real costume so mama connected two brown, paper grocery bags and I went as a brown, paper grocery bag. At my elementary school Halloween fair I was cornered by a couple of baseball furies and at least three spidermen. The tallest boy said, “What are you, garbage?” I said, “I’m a sack.” And then they punched me in the belly and filled me full of trash. When the vice-principal finally came over to my soggy bag of tears and bruises, I couldn’t identify my bullies because, well, because it was Halloween — the night of anonymous terror! Oh, what a sad sack was I before the enlightenment.

But that was then, and this is now!!!! Did I mention, I LOVE HALLOWEEN !?!

Actually, I’ve only recently become Mr. Halloween. In fact, most years I just sit with my dog inside my house. I keep all the lights out waiting for the bell to stop ringing. Then, I will usually sneak to the window to make sure the coast is clear and when it is, I hit the Donovan on the iPod. (I’m almost able to listen to “Season of the Witch” all the way through without getting overcome with “the fear”.) Sometimes, I have this dream about eating bushels of candy corn until my stomach grows sweet teeth. But this year it’s gonna be different. This year, I’m really really gonna be Mr. Halloween! I can feel it.

Dayvid Figler


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  1. I, too, love Halloween, but the reminder of Jim Belushi’s involvement definitely put the kibosh on the festivities! Mention of should-be-capitalized, “Baseball Furies” was redeeming, however. I STILL have nightmares!

  2. Whoa, don’t make me into a popsicle! This was the editor’s call, Mitch; Mr. Figler is blameless. I figured these were off-brand Furies and Spidermen — probably bought at Costco.

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