Whatcha gonna do when you get out of jail?

Halloween, the best holiday of all, is upon us. I’m in a damn sorry state, I hate to say, and so I’m sitting here on Halloween night doing laundry and fighting to keep my eyes open instead of starting fires and terrifying the peasants. Whatever, we partied damn hard the last two nights. The ringing in my ears, the ache in my bones, and the weariness in my soul is a small price to pay for the riotous hard drinking and rumpshaking of Friday and Saturday.

Where to begin… I’m not sure, really. So much ground to cover before I pass out.

Our costume shopping had been quite successful, as evidenced by the array of wigs, glasses, and ninja swords jammed into the back seat of my truck. After Q Unit picked out his bra at Ross (haha, picked out his bra) we met up with some ladies and chilled high class at the Cliffs. The Cliffs is the only place to be at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. After gorging ourselves on free tacos and half-price drinks, we said goodbye to the ladies and bounced out, heading back to our place for costume construction and pre-partying.

Our costumes fuckin rocked. Q makes a damn sexy Beatrix Kiddo, and he had his ass variously pinched and slapped several times that night, by both adventurous girls and confused dudes. The line of the night, which we heard over and over again, was “Hey yeah… Oh damn that’s a dude!” Hilarious. Pete and I made an excellent Wayne and Garth, schwinging ladies left and right while quoting many a line. Fools don’t know, but Wayne’s World is definitely one of the most influential movies of the 90’s, a cinematic masterpiece that serves as a cornerstone of not only the pop culture of the era, but of my very personality. It’s an interesting thing to think about, that a movie which can capture a moment in history so perfectly and be so god damn righteous will be absolutely incomprehensible to people not alive during that split second in time. It’s a sobering thought that my 16 year old cousin doesn’t get about half the jokes in it, and certainly can’t understand why we worship it the way we do; she’s not ignorant, we’re just old.

Speaking of schwings, there were two basic reactions from the Fairer Sex upon being schwung by Peter and myself;

1) Giggling and mild embarrassment. About half the ladies reacted this way, enjoying the compliment and setting aside any notions of propriety and stuckupitude for us because a) we’re in costume and or b) we’re hot. For future reference, ladies, this is the CORRECT way to respond.

2) Baleful glares, sneers, and or hissing. The other half of the double x’ers reacted like this, which is very uncool. “Denied!”, as it were. It’s not as though we’re screaming “TAKE IT OFF!” or leaning on the horn as we speed past you in our IROC Camaro. How the hell can you justify taking offense to having Wayne and Garth toss a tasteful schwing your way when you’re dressed up in a leotard with kittie ears and a tail, a costume with the same total fabric surface area as a napkin? It’s Wayne god damn Campbell and Garth mothafuckin Algar, complimenting you in their own special way, and you turn around glaring like we just spat on you, or drop-kicked your grandma.

Well whatever, we had a damn good time, and it’s nice to see that some classy ladies still know how to be schwung with dignity.

Friday night was a flurry of parties, driving madly from place to place and getting our merriment on in a big way. Highlights? Indeed.

Friday:

The dudes in the Fishmasters costumes. That rocks. Jessie and Evelyn’s party, which also rocked; in fact if there was any poor judgment that night it was leaving their party for the sorry ass one by Santa Rosa Park, which was a bunch of Cuestoids sitting around a fire smoking and being mediocre, glancing mournfully at the empty Kegerator and basically just sucking. The Beatrix vs. Michael Jackson danceoff, where Q emerged victorious despite serious inebriation and fake boob related logistical problems. The Airforce girl, the Cheerleader girl, and the Crippled girl, the top three schwings of the night, in that order. All three were Babealicious. Airforce? If she was president, she’d be Baberham Lincoln. (The Crip was not cuter than the Airforce one, Pete, and you’re a god damn nearsighted feeb if you think so.) Incidentally, none of these three reacted to the schwing in a graceful or pleased manner. For that matter, Airforce’s large, shirtless Fireman boyfriend didn’t react all that gracefully either, but I guess he couldn’t find sack enough to start a fight with two pop culture demigods and a dude in a bra. Chump. The weird ass Gwar extra breathing fire at the tard party while getting hit on by the skinny, chain-smoking Whorefairy. That was a damn great image.

Saturday:
Demolishing a pinata with our capoeira skills. Watching Little Red Riding Hood holler at Garth (she must have heard he got pubes). The look from the three dudes who dressed as Crazy 88’s when Q aka Beatrix walks through the door of their party. (Awesome coincidence or quantifiable evidence of divine meddling? You decide.) Nate and Gina’s god damn sick ass Army of Darkness costumes. The dude who dressed up like the God guy from Farmers, with the sign and everything. Screaming “Backstage Passes!” and flashing our Stab party tickets at the door to everyone around us. Getting freaky with Gumby to “Thriller”. Much much much drunken bootyshaking. Peter falling through a table while trying to climb in a window. The 3 AM Shopping Cart Crash, which I managed to escape with only minor cranial and spinal damage. MGD Tallboys, Captain Britain, and that damn good pizza at Stefanie’s.

Sunday:
Vanilla Milkshakes and the Hiphopastromanous as the ultimate hangover cure. Quint breaking his face open. (In the process of helping Gina move, Nate held up the bottom hooplike piece to one of those large bamboo concave chairs and told Q to dive through it. He did, and succeeded perfectly, except he hooked it with his toe at the last second and tossed it into the air, rolling over at exactly the wrong time and taking the whole bamboo apparatus right in the eye. There was some blood, and a decent shiner, but it was still awesome. Definitely QBAB worthy) The brand new ICE COLD sign gracing our living room wall, courtesy of Drew who liberated it from some gas station. Words to live by, and now they hang bold and blessed over our very home. In them, I find inspiration, comfort, and hope. Finding my wallet. Filling out my absentee ballot in direct opposition to Fox News’ recommendations.

Can you blame me for being god damn tired? I fear the abrupt return to reality tomorrow morning; coming down off a weekend like this into a mire of paperwork and academic despair is a misery I wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially me.

Oh, and you fuckbags that put on the haunted house at the end of Osos street? You should all be whipped with an extension cord and force-fed a dictionary, page by page. I have no real problem with you trying to do something nice for the kids and putting on a haunted house, in fact I applaud the intention and throw up the horns for how awesome it is to go all out on Halloween, but… BUT… If you’re gonna make signs for your shizzle, where little kids can see, do NOT WRITE “Hallowierd!” On an average street, the kids come away no worse for wear beyond bad teeth and some smeared face paint, but at your little den of evil they come away with shitty spelling and grammatical ineptitude, damaged for life. You make up a word, and still spell it wrong. I hate you.

College educated people who can’t spell weird right on a god damn Halloween poster… and it’s not like you didn’t know, you found out and still didn’t fix it. I must have screamed at you three times out the window of my car at various points during the day, and when I drove by tonight the damn travesty was still hanging up on the wall where all the impressionable youngsters could see it. When you see a crazed, geeky looking guy in a Who Is John Galt shirt swerving across several lanes of traffic to cuss at you for your grammatical ineptitude, take it seriously, don’t just leave your shame flapping in the breeze. Your lame ass house was only scary as a commentary on the state of the modern American educational system, assmonkeys.

A weekend like this is so jam packed with anecdotes and images and excellence that I feel like I’m short changing you kids with a highlights reel. I guess the only way to get the full experience is to be there, though, so all you starry-eyed, worshipful readers out there are just gonna have to settle for this pale written reflection of a truly kickass weekend. That’s what you get for living vicariously through me. I do my best to capture the feel, the vibe, the meaning of the incidents, but somehow I fear I’ll never quite do justice to the things I’ve seen. I could write for an hour, describing every little detail of Q vooing a mannequin at the Establishment at 3 AM amidst the broken balloons, empty bottles, and party fallout from the night’s festivities. I could hack out adjective after adjective, trying to convey that very special, quasi-satisfying, twisted feeling you get when a truly drop-dead heart-stopping “Exsqueeze me? ” gorgeous girl snarls at you and stomps off after being audibly appreciated for her beauty with a harmonized “Schwing.” Hell, I could even start msesing up allthe wrods so its seems liek i’m a s faded as i were last nite!~ I somehow doubt any of that will do the trick, however. I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got vivid memories, my friends’ sharp recollections, two disposable cameras, and a few minor scars with which to hold on to the last couple of days. For all you kids at home that weren’t with me and have to settle for the Reader’s Digest version, well, there’s always next Halloween.

Party on, readers.

-T.

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