Holy Hoo-rahs, Batman!

Ah, Halloween. Tis the most magical time of the year. For those of you who don’t know, I get waaaay into Halloween. I am obsessed with it. I mean so deeply obsessed I begin planning my Halloween decorations/party in July, start stressing about it in late August and get thoroughly pissed in September when I see Christmas decorations overtaking the Halloween aisles at the local store.

 

Side bar: Screw you, retailers. Screw you and your early Christmas.

 

Back to the topic at hand, I love Halloween. I literally spend the week leading up to October 31 working furiously into the wee hours of the night building decorations and baking food for my party. Then the day before and of Halloween I work about 18-20 hours each day setting up a spooky Halloween display on my front lawn and decorating my home for a party I host the neighbors at after trick-or-treating.

 

To borrow a phrase from Fiddy, I love Halloween like a fat kid love cake.

 

For Weirdo and Crazy, naturally the big excitement is choosing what they will dress up as for Halloween. For Weirdo, this changes about every 30 seconds. I mean right up until the time of purchase. It’s cute and harmless though. She wants to be a Disney Princess. She wants to be a cowgirl. She wants to be a different Disney Princess. She wants to be Barbie. She get’s to the store, she comes out as Batgirl.

 

WTF?

 

Now, I’m cool about this. I’m a guy, and I love a tea party or playing babies as much as the next red meat eating, football watching, hairy chested, action movie fan. But Weirdo wanting to be Batgirl is pretty freaking cool, right?

 

Wrong.

 

Observe the following photo so we can discuss. Take your time. I’ll wait.

 

 

 

 

 

Let me point of what’s wrong with this.

 

“Teen” comes to mind first. I’d be uncomfortable around a neighbor’s wife in this outfit (Note to wife: Green light for you though, hon. I have a couple other options I earmarked in the catalogue as well).

 

“Lenient parents” would be numero dos. Lenient? Really? What else falls under that category? Wine coolers? Co-ed overnight cuddle parties? A rousing game of “Just the Tip?”

 

Talk about a euphemism. Let me take a stab at reworking the copy for accuracy:

 

 

“Hey, does everyone basically think your daughter is a hoo-rah? Why not remove all doubt? Honestly, I mean, what do you care? Do you even know where your daughter is? Oops, hey, you dripped some mustard on your wife beater. No, I don’t think dabbing at it with a sock soaked in PBR is going to get it out. What is that smell?”

(Spirit Halloween)

 

 

Now, I got sympathy for the ladies. I realize once you hit adulthood your choice of costumes is a little lacking. Basically your menu of options consists of “Slutty (insert profession here).”

 

(Again, I’m not complaining!)

 

But does my daughter have to be subject to that? Isn’t Princess Jasmine and her bare mid-drift  racy enough?

 

Crazy is being a cat. Not a pussycat or a Pussycat Doll or a cat in heat. Just a little kitty with little whiskers and ears. And she says “meow” every time you bring up her costume.

 

Adorable.

 

As far as Weirdo, she’s way into the ass-kicking superhero side of it, which is pretty neat. I guess the bright side is I can give her a can of Mace for her Bat Tool Belt in case Lester the Molester is lurking on his porch with a bowl of Bit-O-Honies.

 

If nothing else, he should get Maced for handing out that shitty candy. Seriously, who the eff eats that crap?

 

Happy Halloween!

TAG! You’re (an) I(dio)T!!!

Ahhh genetics. Aren’t they adorable? Sure! Of course they are when you are crossing the red flower with the white one in the Punnet Square…I think you get a couple pink ones when they, you know, do it.

I aced Biology as a lad. I’m not bragging. I’m just saying.

Anywho, so as an innocent young boy attending the daily garten that is kinder, my eyes fell upon a spirited lass with red hair braided in pigtails, and soon I found myself smitten. Yes, the Cootie fad common among my peers at that age (the lice-like infestation, not the upstanding Hasbro game that has been adored for generations) was completely foreign to me.

I’ve been down with hoes the ladies since day 1. That’s just how I roll.

So although on recess I would play “wrestle” and “fight” and dodgeball” and “kickball” and “guns” and every other game banned during the pussification of America, I’m not going to lie, I’d engage in a little bit of “chase” with the honies.

So, over dinner the other night, I asked Weirdo how school was and what she did (because I am an upstanding father and I think I once saw a PSA involving rapping parents that alluded to such interaction with your offspring keeping them away from “the weed”).

And as is generally the case, sans “I went outside” and “I played,” she has zero recollection of anything that took place within those hallowed halls of learning. But, alas, on this one evening, the details of her daily activities were more, shall we say, robust than most.

It seems Weirdo spent her recess chasing her friend “Betty’s” (name changed because getting sued over of shitty blog post sucks) brother. Now, she’s a girl and girls are prone to show an interest in boys at an earlier age, but did it have to start in kindergarten?

I’m a pretty easy going guy, and I know I can drink away the demons of fatherhood if need be, so I take it in stride as I saw through my pork chop, straight through the plate and into the table top.

But then the kicker came in:

Me: “Oh, and who is Betty’s brother?”

Weirdo: “Paul” (see above re: name change)

Me: “Paul, huh?”

Weirdo: “Yeah. He’s two years older.”

You wannabe pimp SOB, Paul.

I’m watching you.