Yes I Candy

I have to write something because, frankly, I'm running out of serial killers to learn about.
I did Gacy. Dahmer - old news.
Ramirez. He was terrible. The sort of guy that would make other convicted killers say, "Jesus. What a psycho."
And now, as I watch Ted Bundy calmly explain why violent detective novels and pornographic books do not mix, I realize I must write.
Otherwise, at this rate, it'll be me in a jumper applying for stays before long.

So, it's Halloween and bikinis are on sale.
I'm going to fetch chocolate after work.
Andie really wants to get some "big" bars, too, to act as surprises for the first few trick-or-treaters.
Which is cool with me.
Dr. Powell used to give out cans of drink (that's soda) - whole cans!
In life, Dr. Powell learned that hard work may be rewarded with material gain.
A lesson you learned on his doorstep after climbing his steep, unending driveway.
Anyway, she and I carved PERVS into a pumpkin last night.
The 'R' got away from us, but otherwise it's alright.
It was her idea.
This will be a far cry from my first Halloween in Halifax, when I wrote:
SORRY! OUT OF CANDY! on a piece of loose leaf with a Sharpie before sticking it to my door.
(There had never been candy to begin with.)
But now!
We'll thrill all of the ghosts and goblins with full-sized, gas station-regulated Kit Kats.
And, if we actually put our pumpkin out, perhaps we'll give the odd overbearing parent a scare, too.
Y'know, a few weeks ago Andie made fake tombstones.
She placed them on the lawn (a generous term), and the landlord stuck them on the side of the house...with the garbage.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'd probably rather a marker more charming over my grave when Ted Bundy comes for me (so to speak), but I still don't think there was any need.
At least say something to us. She took the time to paint them.
Just a sidelong mentioning:
"Oh, and I put your tombstones over on the side of the house because they looked shitty.
The wife thought they were shitty, anyway."
Something.

I've never handed out candy before.
I've taken it from some babies, sure.
But I've never been the guy with the stainless steel bowl.
With older siblings, you do fewer and fewer remotely adult things.
Buying beer. Babysitting. Et cetera.
I remember Colin took the job one year.
He had a 13" black & white in the laundry room and he was fine.
This was back when sole control over a small black & white TV meant something to a 14-year old.
He ran out of candy and began handing out canned goods.
Like a miniature UNICEF.
I think mom was pissed.
At nightfall we'd trade bars. One of those moments when Brian and I behaved normally.
Diplomatically.
He could take all of my Crunchie. All of the Big Turks (and I do mean all of them. Every one ever made).
I could take whatever bars he didn't like, which I can no longer remember.
November would come around and the candy, now forgotten, wouldn't even matter anymore.
I'd find stray packs of Rockets in a Ninja Turtle vehicle - "Huh?" And then promptly eat them.
Some would say that Halloween promotes gluttony.
Derelicts who ration how much candy children are allowed to have.
How awful.
"Two pieces tonight and another three pieces tomorrow in your recess.
We'll take this exciting, extravagant kids' activity and turn it into something controlled and regimented.
Something adult.
But it will still be fun because I say it is."
Children don't measure candy by individual pieces - nor should they.
Children measure candy like crushed stone; by gross tonnage.
I wouldn't say gluttony.
Hedonism, maybe.
I'm looking forward to doling out the goodies.
It's important to participate. It's important to get involved.
Something I once knew and am now learning again.
So, from me and mine to you and yours, happy Movember Eve.

And remember: Bobbing for apples must include breaks for oxygen.