What The Hell Are You Supposed To Be?
I love Halloween. There’s nothing I enjoy more than the opportunity to pretend to be someone or something else for one day out of the year. Having kids can also add to that fun as, if you raised them right, they always want to be something cool and you can use them as a canvas for your twisted imagination. Actually, you can do that every day, but on Halloween you’re less likely to be judged for your deviant parenting techniques. It’s become obvious to me that I wasn’t raised right as, for Halloween; I always wanted to dress up as something that in hindsight was ridiculous. What compounded the problem was that I was also an extremely headstrong product of “Oops I forgot to pull out” so I insisted on making my costumes myself. My clown looked like the makeup had been applied by a five-year-old with palsy and ADHD, my ninja consisted of a scarf and a toque and my vampire required the application of one line of lipstick to the corner of my mouth; because I had been drinking blood, you see.
I put the blame for these travesties squarely upon my parents. To them, Halloween was just another day that necessitated catering to the children and handing out candy to a bunch of little shits that are probably going to egg your house anyway so they never really got into the spirit. I wasn’t allowed to watch scary movies until much later in life so I had no concept of zombies, werewolves or any of the other classic costumes. No I was a kid who actually believed it was perfectly acceptable to fabricate a costume that, once worn, would have been told made him to look like a fucking idiot. That’s what caring parents do, folks. Don’t be one of those parents, like mine, who lets their kids walk around looking like a tool in front of their peers because you don’t want to stifle their creativity or uniqueness. You’re doing an immeasurable amount of damage that stays with the child well into adulthood. If you continue down that path, you’re going to be the parents of that kid that goes on American Idol and sings with the dulcet tones of a cat in heat hacking up a fur ball but can’t figure out why they don’t make it to the next round. We all laugh at them and we are right to. This brings me to my most embarrassing Halloween costume that, thankfully, occurred when I was young and still had no concept of social ostracization. At the end of the day, however, I would know that burning brand of social stigma.
I was in grade four and decided that I wanted to go as a game die for Halloween. Not dice as in the items one uses to randomly generate a numerical value that controls the amount of spaces one moves in every single board game ever created. No. Just one single and solitary little die. It would have been fine if I’d decided to go as a twelve-sided die or something to that effect as it would have a genuinely nerdy appeal, but why would I want to do that? On it’s surface, the costume itself is breathtakingly simple. All you need is a box, some white paper to cover the box and some circles cut out of black construction paper circles to paste onto the box in the proper order and you’re done.
I began experiencing difficulties when it was revealed that we had no white paper, nor black construction paper and my parents were not about to purchase some just so I could throw it away after a day. One has to remember that it was the mid eighties so computer paper wasn’t exactly a standard purchase for most homes. Instead I was forced to make due with a box that was too big and Christmas wrapping paper. At this time any child with even a smattering of awareness would have thought that this might not be the best idea to pursue and my parents tried to tell me, but I would not be swayed. I was determined to press on and see my dreams of creating the most awesome die costume in the history of mankind come to fruition.
Way back in the eighties we still had what was called a costume parade. This is when all the kids in the school would file through every classroom to show off their masterful creations. As I unveiled my Davinci-like handiwork I was greeted with that most humiliating question that has haunted every person at some point in their lives: “What the hell are you supposed to be?” and I was crushed. This question is perfectly cromulent when one has a clever or punnatious response but please be assured that, “I’m a die” is not that type of response. Perhaps it was the shiny red wrapping paper or the shiny green dots representing the pips, but it was apparent that my die costume had now metamorphosized into that of a fucking Christmas present with a head.
Initially I thought that it must just be the obvious mongoloids in my classroom that couldn’t appreciate the brilliance, originality and thought that went into such magnificent accoutrement; but as the day went on, more and more people asked what the hell I was supposed to be. I began to realize that this failing had been my own as kids love Christmas, but when was the last time you saw a fucking Santa Clause at Halloween? It also didn’t help matters that the box was far too big and allowed only my hands to poke out the sides. Due to this engineering faux pas, whenever I tripped, or was tripped (accidentally of course) I would fall directly on my chest and face. In hindsight, I should have just told everybody that I was spotted dick because I surely felt it by the end of the day. It took more than a year to live down my terrible decision because we all know that kids are cruel and everyone was waiting for my cock-up the next Halloween. I played it safe the following year though and went as a soldier - sans camouflage. But I did have an awesome gun.
Today I want to hear about your costuming nightmares. Whether they’re yours or belong to someone else, I want to know about the horrible Halloween decisions that you’ve made or seen. Bonus points if you’ve convinced another person to wear something irredeemably stupid. But, seriously, a fucking red Christmas present with a bad case of the rare and dreaded shiny green herpes.