Treats:
- So how did OKC end up with the worst team name in professional sports? (Mental Floss)
- Mike Dunleavy's Coach of the Year award is in the goodie bag... Until he blows it, of course (Basketbawful)
- The hazards of lax gun control laws (Sports Pickle)
- CSI: Maimi suddenly needs a serious nose job (Awful Announcing)
So, I was a junior in high school at the time. To be fair though, it had been a while. I mean, it had been at least 2 years since my last cand-handling episode. So needless to say, I felt a little strange about the whole affair. Since mama went away, I've never been good with costumes.
Huh?
No man, she's not dead. She's in prison.
It seems that prositution is NOT legal in this part of the country.
Anyway, I've always been a pretty big fan of SNL, and let's just say that Captain Retard actually made some sense to me in the clip above, so I took his advice and went low-budget style for this experiment. I grabbed mama's electric mixer (she obviously wasn't using it) and went off to score some candy with a few other fellas well past the age where such behavior was acceptable or rewarded.
The first few houses go fine, in an awkward sort of way. We generally catch raises eyebrows from those under the age of Alzheimer's Alley, and smiles from those above it. However, when we get to our fourth house of the evening, something peculiar happens: a younger blonde woman answers the door and greets us with the normal perplexed look suggesting that we were just a couple of assholes... Which we of course were. I run through my spiel:
I'm crazy mixer-head man. I got a mixer attached to my head. Isn't that crazy? Gimme some can-day!
As soon as I finish, the blonde-haired husband, previously lurking in the background, menacingly enters the foreground and inquires, "Are you the guys that smashed my pumpkins? Because I think you are." We hem, haw, and stutter in utter horror just before Mrs. Blondie shoves a couple Mini-Kit Kats into our pillow cases and we flee the scene as quickly as possible.
We wander around, not really ringing anymore doorbells a) because we're petrified as to what other intimidation lies behind each door and b) because we suddenly realize that while we were not guilty of the crime, we were certainly at the age of suspicion. So we decided to call it a night. But on our way back we had to walk by that same house again, and when we did Mr. Blondie shoots out the door, just as intense but with a different tone. The son of a bitch actually apologized to us for making us shit ourselves right there on his porch.
Scariest Halloween ever.
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