My family was invited to a Hallowe'en street party last night.
The road was blocked by constables to ensure that maniac drivers like Old Seamus would not reduce the multitude of costumed pedestrians to bloody puddles of cloth tatters & makeup smudges. Hundreds of people were there: mobs of young trick-or-treaters; families in their yards tending small bonfires, downing nachos & salsa & gooey-crunchy roasted marshmallows on sticks & bottles of ale, handing out candies and baked goodies to the young pups & carousing with neighbours. There were jack-o-lanterns, scarecrows, lights and decorations up to here (I'm pointing at my ruff). If you closed your eyes and just listened, you could imagine the smell of cinnamon & pumpkin and freshly turned dirt wafting on the cool evening breeze.
It was a sight I thought I would never see in the 21st century. It was the scaled-down neighbourhood of Beaver Cleaver, Dennis the Menace, My Three Sons and Cliff Huxtable. It was a Ray Bradbury story that had been boiled in a cauldron of black & orange Hallowe'en Tree Sap until it erupted to cover four blocks of homes. It was wonderful.
I should have seen it coming: the inevitable arrival of the evil Party Crashers, outsiders by the carload who moved in as the party was winding down. You've seen them: the ones with no costumes, only grocery bags to carry their haul; the ones who appear to be about seventeen to nineteen years of age with scruffy little goatees; the ones who wear their pants so low you wonder how they stay on at all; the ones who approach the porch and hold out their bags while their eyes dare you not to put something in it; the ones who won't say "trick or treat" and whose sense of entitlement suppresses any dormant urge to offer a simple "thank you." The ones who will destroy this beautiful, sacred tradition of an enthusiastic little neighbourhood.
These "kids" are the very reason Hallowe'en died on my street years ago... people no longer want to open their doors.
They are the reason I didn't stay home to treat the little goblins last night.
Hallowe'en scares the williebojenkins out of me.
What's your excuse?
7 comments:
I spit where these children breathe. I realize I may have my own personal yacht waiting for me on the Lake of Fire, but so be it.
On a lighter note, one of the "youngsters" clearly soiled himself when he looked up from his goodies to see me standing in front of him.
And I wasn't even wearing a costume!
Tee hee.
Well, for a brief glowing moment you enjoyed yourself. Just remember what that ugly little frog guy said-
"Hell is other people" and unfortunately for you they found their way to your neighborhood the other night.
It may be ye've found your niche in life, Seamus. Rise up to your full 8 feet, meet their pathetic show of entitlement with your baleful glower, and watch their bowels turn to water.
Mitchellius Maximus,
I'll see your yacht and raise you 500.
I say use da candy-groobbin' bastards for next Hallyween's village decorations. (Sumthin' nae unlilke me auld pal Vlad.)Aye, p'rhaps twill send a message to others o' their ilk: If ye kinna contribute to the spirit o' the 'ooliday, stay out me village, poonks!
And it wasn't yer nae wearing a costoom wha caused the lad to soil himself . . . twas yer nae wearin' noothin'! Tee hee.
Did you see the little tykes' faces light up when I ... gave ... them ... the ...JELLO ... PUDDINGAH! Greezenbahzels!
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