As I were


The great costume race for 2006 is over. I came in last.



I detest having to do the whole dress-up bit for Halloween. I’m a grown-ass man, with a busy schedule on and off the clock.

I struggle annually with imagining a costume, then seeing if any retailer within 50 miles has the things I need. (I can’t sew, I can’t draw, and I sure as hell can’t dress myself.)

Some people have homes with an abundance of odds and ends that would make three or four brilliant costumes. My home has dust and porn.

Even in the years I’ve actually outdone myself with a clever costume, that non-candy-induced euphoria ends the moment another costumed idiot pierces you with the whole “I don’t get it but I’m too polite to point that out” slack-jawed withering stare.

And a few will tell you to your face that they don’t get it.


I still have great ideas for costumes for this year, this month, this holiday. But they remain stuck in my head, for lack of materials or know-how or motivation, or now, time.

As I head out to the many parties with the sluttily dressed actuaries and the bobbing for roofies, I go with head held high, wearing what I would on any Saturday night.

I am nothing more than me. That costume, worn everywhere at all times, seems to be sufficiently grotesque.

People will point, and give me the “I don’t get it” look. Or condescendingly smirk at the jerk who didn’t bother to dress appropriately.

Thanks, but I’ll take my bag of rocks and beat you senseless later. After I’ve made out with the slutty programmer.


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