This evening, as little Trick-or-Treaters roam the neighborhood, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I will attempt to alternate between answering the door and entertaining our dinner guests by ladling hot lentil soup down their gullets. Perhaps we will be fortunate and have a massive rainstorm arrive just in time to thin the hungry haunted hordes.
I know I sound a bit curmudgeonly. But I’m old enough to have earned the right to be grumpy, and nothing brings on the grump quite as effectively as being called away repeatedly from my meat and drink to answer the doorbell, there to dole out superfluous calories to thankless little snots.
Oh, there are plenty of cute little tykes. I love the ones who are so young as to be totally slack-jawed with wonder and cluelessness at the proceedings. Their parents usually have to coach them:
“What do you say?”
“Good! Don’t forget to say ‘Thank You’!”
Cute. But I cannot stand it when kids who are Old Enough To Know Better mash the doorbell repeatedly, stand mutely at the door with sack outstretched, then waltz away without some basic Statement of Gratitude. That kind of crap makes SWMBO’s blood boil... must be the teacher in her.
We’ll be handing out miscellaneous non-chocolatey candies this year, Airheads having been unavailable at Costco. Two huge sacks should just about be enough if the rain stays away. We try to avoid doling out chocolate, the leftovers being what is known in law enforcement circles as an attractive nuisance. A great big sack of Fat-Ass, we don’t need.
Regarding Hallowe’en etiquette, proper observance of the holiday requires that The Forms Be Obeyed. You must speak the Ritual Invocation: Trick or Treat. (Adding “Smell my feet, give me something good to eat” is lily-gilding.) And you must, upon receiving the Candiferous Swag, express appropriate gratitude: Thank You. And - this is important! - you must be Properly Costumed. If you are too fucking lazy to put on a costume, and especially if you are old enough to shave, you should be home watching porn and eating Chee-tos, not roaming the neighborhood clutching a pillowcase begging for Simple Carbohydrates.
One of your Old Man’s filthy flannel nightshirts does not constitute acceptable costumery, by the way.
Collecting for UNICEF? Get off my front steps and away from my house.
Those who do not conduct themselves properly receive a flattened and scored Human Turd, cleverly wrapped to resemble a Hershey Bar.