In keeping with tradition, we continue with our series of WORST HALLOWEEN PICTURES EVER. The Mister and I love the peacock costume and when Mikey wore it, he loved it, too. But Nicholas? You would have thought I was poking his testicles with hot pokers the way he was protesting–and if you ask my brother in law, putting a boy in this costume isn’t much different.
Lucky for Captain Testosterone, I had Mikey’s old puppy dog costume shoved in the back of the closet underneath a pile of swim suits and beach towels. After I shook the dust off, I crammed Nico’s near-three years of toddler into a costume sized for an 18 month old. Have you ever seen a terrier wear capris? You have now.
In other news, if you are old enough to, I don’t know, claim dependents on your taxes, don’t trick-or-treat at our house because The Mister and I will call you out on your douche-baggery. Just ask the twenty something year old guy who strolled up wearing jeans and a sweater.
“Trick or Treat,” he claimed as he held open a bulging pillow case. The Mister was not impressed.
“Dude. What are you even supposed to be?”
Twenty something year old guy delicately extended a foot in The Mister’s direction to show him his worn Vans. “I’m a skater dude.”
“Well, skate or die, bro. Happy Halloween.”
Want more proof of our hostility? Track down the Suburban filled with twelve families that would stop at each block, walk a few houses, and then drive 20 feet to the next block. I’m sure they will advise you to heed our warning. Hey, we all know I’m the laziest when it comes to exercise but, really? You can’t walk on Halloween? If you’re feeling a bit weak, start gnawing on the Smarties bouncing around in that Santa Claus-sized sack of candy and chase it with a Jolt or whatever it is you have rolling around under the seats of your Halloween Chariot. In other words: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.
So, The Mister gives the lazies their candy with a healthy dose of stink eye. I can almost see the slides of power point presentation on juvenile diabetes escaping out of his ears like steam. Even then, there was no need for them to worry until the forty year old matriarch of this band of sedentary travelers moved towards The Mister like a barge heading into the Panama Canal.
“Now, come on! What? Who? What are you?”
“Nah, I’m not trick or treating.”
“You’re not?” At this point The Mister could only look pointedly at her outstretched bag of candy.
“Nope. I’m collecting.”
“Collecting?!” Collecting? Like a bookie? Is this the mob? Was she planning to shake us down for some bite-sized Snickers and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?
“Yeah, for her. She twisted her ankle.”
Her. I see. Just one quick question: WHO IS HER?! Is Her in the Suburban? Is Her a child? A dog? A figment of our imagination? Whoever Her is, we know she has a bum ankle. I can only assume the weight of two hundred pounds of candy collected in 3 hours over 20 city miles crushed Her’s bones like dry twigs. Much like you, you behemoth woman, have crushed our hopes and dreams that there exist people out there who won’t go to any means necessary for some free candy.
Don’t even get me started on the young couple who were trick or treating with the sleeping 6 month old…