I think the Nava-ho proposition of 2004 was the last straw.
Slutty costumes? Shots instead of Snickers? Nary a pumpkin in sight?
What the fuck?
Halloween is not what it used to be.
Most holidays are overrated. New Years, Channukah, Christmas (I assume), birthdays. Even Thanksgiving falls flat on its face once the mashed potatoes are cleared away and I am faced with three extra pounds to add to my fast approaching January 1st weightloss resolution, and, more treacherously, three uninterrupted days with my family.
But Halloween was more than that. It was the essence of my year. A few days before October 31st I would give my mother instructions, and though she often failed the idealistic young Yona in a million other ways, here she always exceeded expectations. Yeah, she would whine, and fidget, and explain that my dream was impossible, but lo and behold! Come All Hallow's Eve, there it would be, laid out and ready. One year I was a lobster (complete with a "Kosher for Halloween" sign -- her innovation). Once I was a sand-witch. Get it? A sand-witch?
And that's just the beginning. In New York City, you attack the issue apartment building style. Plastic pumpkinfuls of candy are for wusses. We filled taxis. To top it all off, my sister is allergic to peanuts. I didn't have to trick her into trading her Reeses for my Laffy Taffy. She had to.
For health reasons.
Score.
I'm not really the Nava-ho type. You know what type I am? I'm the "I Want Candy" type. (Go Lil' Bow Wow, go!) And I'm taking back the night. So what if nobody wants to hook up with an unslutty pumpkin or a more-than-scantily-clad Spongemonkey? There are 364 nights a year for that kind of bullshit. (363 if you subtract Thanksgiving, too). Halloween is for debauchery in its ultimate form.
Trick or Treat. Smell my feet.
Give me something good to eat.
-- Yona
