By: Courtney Langston
I guess it’s that time of year again. Halloween has plagued our neighborhoods, with all its tacky decorations and stroke inducing lights. I can’t even walk down my own damn street without some skeleton spitting some scary bullshit at me from the mailboxes. Why can’t there just be some simplicity in this world, maybe some pumpkins and hay bales on front porches? But no, Party City has to plague this nation. I should sue them. In sixteen days people will expect me to don my most dramatic costume and hand all these kids some sour ass candy that’ll make their teeth rot out, and fun fact, when you’re over the age of 54, it will. Candy will also sit in your stomach and cumulate until you become a slightly gourd looking person, forcing you to get rid of your side medium button ups and replace them with XLs. Meanwhile, on the television, you see all these young whipper-snappers in college wearing costumes of their finest fruit of the loom underwear out on Halloween. They’re all going to hell. My wife would have had a coronary if she had seen what society has done to this holiday. Looking out my window I see a family walking with their dog. And God bless America, they put the damn dog in a Frozen costume. A light bulb goes on in my head: I will decorate my porch. With a Cadaver holding a bucket of candy for the sweet little rugrats. Happy Halloween.