I am a huge fan of holidays. Not for socially correct reasons beaten into us by parents - like love for your family, the "giving" mindset, or quality time with your loved ones. No, I am definitely not a giver; I love holidays for what they do for ME.
And why shouldn't I? The bulk of my time for each day/week/month year goes to servicing others and making the rich even richer, ranging from the boss's Yoda vocabulary in my professional life ("Logistics you have, effort levels you don't?") to my personal life ("was it supposed to end this quick?"), even extending into my beloved TV time ("is ExTenze right for you?"). And then comes the relief that for one night, for one solitary night of drinking, costumes and debauchery, social constraints don't apply. I love Halloween.
And then comes the relief that for one night, for one solitary night of drinking, costumes and debauchery, social constraints don't apply. Each time Halloween rolls around, it's like all the mistakes in life mask their flaws for a night: tasteless horror movies becomes insta-classics, the Lakers have an 0-82 season while the Golden State Warriors grace the NBA hardwood, and the abdominal flab on the nearest girl looks like a rock hard 6 pack (or 18 pack, depending on the size of that particular girl and the conviction of your beer goggles). The Mayans must have boogied on Halloween too, because this holiday is the calendars gift to all horror movie aficionados, NBA fans, social deviants...and whores. And I love them all.
Though there wasn't any Golden State Warriors frenzy present, this years' horror appetizer "Chain Letter" had all the makings of an instant TNT classic. Blood, guts, suspense, nudity, and a murderous wardrobe. And by murderous, I mean the Chain Man killed it with a wardrobe we all can relate to: tattered shirt and pants (from our poorer days), over sized chains (like the steroid freaks use for workouts at your local 24 Hour Fitness), and a cool mask (think Scream meets Ninja Gaiden). You know, all white, enveloping the head AND mouth area, just to make sure his air supply is recycled.
We can hit up our neighborhood's seasonal Halloween store (that was a run down Save Mart on September 29) and pick up gear from our favorite horror movies, like Chain Letter. Its cool horror-movie masks and motifs like that that makes Halloween all the more enviable to party-goers throughout the nation. More so for the guys, however. Ah, whores. What's even better about the Halloween apparel season (aside from B-level wardrobe accessories, obviously) is that for all the creativity I might put into an outfit along the lines of Freddy, Jason, or the Chain Man, drunken socialites and the classiest of sorority chicks will do the polar opposite: less equals more.
Awards for the best costume won't go to the guy with a head full of pins and 3 hours of makeup (a la the late 1980's Hell raiser classic); no, they will go to a perverse ex-cheerleader sporting a mini skirt & thong combination, push-up bra and just enough Bacardi in her to prove to the room she can still do the splits, thus effectively saving all "Megan's Law" members from having to use an expensive rufy. As if their inner selves hid from perverted eyes for the previous 364 days of the year and came out on All Hallows Eve with pent-up anticipation and a penchant for promiscuity. Ah, whores. If only your sloppy night could last for another twelve hours, preferably while you wear the Chain Man's mask. I love Halloween! - 40729
And why shouldn't I? The bulk of my time for each day/week/month year goes to servicing others and making the rich even richer, ranging from the boss's Yoda vocabulary in my professional life ("Logistics you have, effort levels you don't?") to my personal life ("was it supposed to end this quick?"), even extending into my beloved TV time ("is ExTenze right for you?"). And then comes the relief that for one night, for one solitary night of drinking, costumes and debauchery, social constraints don't apply. I love Halloween.
And then comes the relief that for one night, for one solitary night of drinking, costumes and debauchery, social constraints don't apply. Each time Halloween rolls around, it's like all the mistakes in life mask their flaws for a night: tasteless horror movies becomes insta-classics, the Lakers have an 0-82 season while the Golden State Warriors grace the NBA hardwood, and the abdominal flab on the nearest girl looks like a rock hard 6 pack (or 18 pack, depending on the size of that particular girl and the conviction of your beer goggles). The Mayans must have boogied on Halloween too, because this holiday is the calendars gift to all horror movie aficionados, NBA fans, social deviants...and whores. And I love them all.
Though there wasn't any Golden State Warriors frenzy present, this years' horror appetizer "Chain Letter" had all the makings of an instant TNT classic. Blood, guts, suspense, nudity, and a murderous wardrobe. And by murderous, I mean the Chain Man killed it with a wardrobe we all can relate to: tattered shirt and pants (from our poorer days), over sized chains (like the steroid freaks use for workouts at your local 24 Hour Fitness), and a cool mask (think Scream meets Ninja Gaiden). You know, all white, enveloping the head AND mouth area, just to make sure his air supply is recycled.
We can hit up our neighborhood's seasonal Halloween store (that was a run down Save Mart on September 29) and pick up gear from our favorite horror movies, like Chain Letter. Its cool horror-movie masks and motifs like that that makes Halloween all the more enviable to party-goers throughout the nation. More so for the guys, however. Ah, whores. What's even better about the Halloween apparel season (aside from B-level wardrobe accessories, obviously) is that for all the creativity I might put into an outfit along the lines of Freddy, Jason, or the Chain Man, drunken socialites and the classiest of sorority chicks will do the polar opposite: less equals more.
Awards for the best costume won't go to the guy with a head full of pins and 3 hours of makeup (a la the late 1980's Hell raiser classic); no, they will go to a perverse ex-cheerleader sporting a mini skirt & thong combination, push-up bra and just enough Bacardi in her to prove to the room she can still do the splits, thus effectively saving all "Megan's Law" members from having to use an expensive rufy. As if their inner selves hid from perverted eyes for the previous 364 days of the year and came out on All Hallows Eve with pent-up anticipation and a penchant for promiscuity. Ah, whores. If only your sloppy night could last for another twelve hours, preferably while you wear the Chain Man's mask. I love Halloween! - 40729
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