Ghosties and Ghoulies Who Extort in the Night-Part II

 

"Okay, just so we're in agreement.  We don't go to the convent, right?"

    Halloween was a big deal when we were kids.  I remember planning what we were going to wear soon after school started in the Fall.  I even recall the costumes I wore:  Superman, Green Hornet, Spiderman (yes, even then), Hulk, Frankenstein, Mummy, “Glow-In-The-Dark Skeleton”, Underdog, “Criminally Insane Druggist,” and (the one that really never caught on) “Dr. Scholl’s Foot Pad Monster.”

    Unlike nowadays, we were never bird-dogged by our parents as we ran like scatterbrains through our neighborhood, feasting on insane amounts of chocolate.

    We knew the unwritten Halloween code: only go to houses with their lights on, be on the lookout for razor blades in the Milky Ways, don’t bother going to the convent (they only passed out mothball-flavored Butter Rum LifeSavers), 

"And salvation."

and take only one piece of candy from the bowl of those too lazy to hand them out themselves.

     Oh, and fling eggs at the houses of those who dared hand out:  apples, popcorn balls, pennies, toothbrushes, ketchup packets, and packets of Equal.

    We couldn’t get enough of what we saw as a great deal.  So, from six o’clock (or dark-it HAD to be dark) until nine, we knocked on doors in the hope of scoring so much sugar that our arms would go numb from lugging around our sacks (Of CANDY!  Keep it clean, people!).

    A bonus: since we went to Catholic School, we could sleep in the next day, All Saints Day.  To those “in the club” (so to speak), November 1st is a “Holy Day of Obligation” and so, was a day off from school (a point rendered moot if it fell on the weekend).

    NOTE:  October 31st this year is on a Saturday.  So, yeah, kids are screwed.  Thanks, Jesus.

    The “obligation” bit was that we were obligated to go to Mass.  We ignored that bit.

    This meant we could shove candy down our throats when we got home until we passed out, woke up, ate some Sugar Smacks, inhaled more Three Musketeers, watched cartoons, and made fun of the public school kids as they trudged off to class.

    NOTE:  This was the best part of having the day off because the public school kids were beating us up the rest of the year.   Even the girls.

Including November 2nd. 
We really didn't think things through.

    My point is, what’s so wrong with a holiday that gives children a chance to play dress up, carve pumpkins, and gorge themselves on goodies doomed to eventually become petrified lumps of sugar on top of the refrigerator?

    Nothing.

    You know why?

    Because Satan doesn’t like Peanut M&Ms.

"Or NECCO wafers.  They suck."

 

Ghosties and Ghoulies Who Extort in the Night

 

"More than a little degrading.  Plus, there's frikkin' spiders everywhere."

PART I

 (come on, two parts for the price of writing one)

NOTE:  The following is a repeat (get used to it-the holiday season SCREAMS for repeats.  And cookies).  And here you thought you were done with reruns after that Columbus Day post.  Oh, sweet naive summer child.  While this may smack of laziness to some (and those people may have a point), it actually is a way to celebrate one of the special days of the year.  And I don’t mean “National Sea Monkey Day” (May 16)*.  The way I figure it, the networks have been broadcasting “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” every October (because April would be silly) since the Vietnam War.  So, why can’t I do the same?

"BECAUSE YOU SUCK!"

Besides, if you haven’t read this, it’s new to you.  Right, Mary?

   Halloween.  What a hoot.

    Yes, I know, I know...it’s a day allegedly drenched in satanic roots and all manner of horrifying images meant to instill terror in mortals:  ghosts, goblins, witches, Hillary Clinton, Rosie O’Donnell in a thong, blah, blah, blah.

In...a...thong

     Rather than surrender to the Dark Lord

Or Abdul el-Sayed

the politically correct observe the holiday via nonsensical “Fall Parades”, “Harvest Festivals”, or “Insert-Celebratory-Name-Here” revels.

     Hand-wringing ninnies also prefer that children not dress up as traditionally spooky characters.  Instead, they dress their tykes as non-threatening characters such as “Insurance Salesman”, “Foot Doctor”, or “Blue Man Group.”

Some younger readers may not realize who they are. 
To them I say, "you're welcome."

     Oh, c’mon!  I took my kids to Halloween celebrations and never once felt the icy tug of Lucifer on pillowcases chock full of Snickers and Jolly Ranchers.  After all, I find it hard to believe that the Devil resides in clowns, ballerinas, or SpongeBob Squarepants.

    The extortion element of Trick-Or-Treating aside, it’s just a day for kids to dress up and happily pander from door to door.  I’m not going to begrudge them a chance to have fun just because some simpering idiots think the day glorifies evil.

To be continued...

*There really is such a day.  Would I lie to you?  Well, uh, yeah, but this is true.

Wordless Wednesday XXII

Meanwhile, at the latest meeting of Taco Bell stockholders... 

Tic Toc

     Like sand through the hourglass....

    While I still have a little time before I turn 70,

Ten months

I still feel the inexorable march toward when I must consider myself "elderly."

"Don't get cocky."
"Anything can happen in ten months, ya know."

    While I don't, at 68, think of myself as "old," certainly not "elderly," I'm well past the time when I can consider myself "middle-aged."  

    Unless, that is, I live to 136.

After all, I'm not Keith Richards.

    I guess I should consider myself lucky.  Imagine what I'll be saying when I'm 78.

"Again."

    At any rate, since I'm on Medicare and have qualified for curbside voting for three years, I guess I am over the hill.  And am unable to see the peak behind me.

    Especially since my body has already provided me a list:

      1.  I no longer fart with great confidence.

NOTE:  This was a line by Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids, but I loved it so much I've taken to quoting it.  And not just because it's true.

      2.  My body is out of warranty, and they don't make replacement parts anymore.

      3.  I identify with those Progressive commercials about young homeowners who are becoming their parents.  Especially the one about needing paper tickets to get on an airplane.  Well, why not?

      4.  I won't stand to pee.  Okay, possible TMI, but standing is tiring and who knows where that stream is going to go?

      5.  Water gives me gas.

      6.  I need a nap soon after I get out of bed.

      7.  I won't clip my toenails anymore and actually have a podiatrist do it.  They have the sturdiest power tools. 

      8.  I wear suspenders.

      9.  I saw Barry Manilow and Tom Jones in concert and bitched about how loud they were.

    10.  I won't balance on one foot to put socks on anymore.  One concussion is enough.

    There's more, of course, but it's almost nine o'clock.

Wordless Wednesday XXI

 

Goodbye Columbus

 

    I love October.  The air is redolent with the sweet aroma of burning leaves, high school gridirons thunder with the sound of fiercely-waged contests to push that pigskin across the goal line, Christmas lights-incredibly-start going up, and early-morning frosts warn of the coming winter.

"Winter is coming."
Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it.

    October also gives us a chance to celebrate the exploits of an intrepid band of explorers who set sail from Barcelona in search of a western route to the fabulous wealth of the East (yeah, going west to get east doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, either).

NOTE:  Please excuse the run-on sentence.

"I'm only gonna say thissa onea more time...if you people don't sitta the effa down, Imma gonna turn thisa thing around and heada backa to Spain!"

    In other words, the tenth month gives us a chance to bemoan the rape and pillage of a pristine wilderness by evil, white, European males who wouldn’t know a bar of soap if it smacked them in the heads.

"Hey, no offense, Esteban, but you kinda smell like ass."

    So, in recognition of their accomplishments, mailmen get the day off and shopping malls trot out their very best Columbus Day displays of bed linen (“Just imagine how comfy the Santa Maria would have been if Chris and the boys had these sheets!!”).

    As a holiday, though, Columbus Day really doesn’t rank up there with the Big Four of Hanukkah, Christmas, New Years, and Boxing Day.  It doesn’t draw in the romantics like Valentines Day, the patriots like the 4th of July, or even the corned beef and Guinness crowd like St. Patrick’s Day.

As festive as that is

    More times than not, we hardly know it’s happened until the evening news greets us with, “Happy Columbus Day!  Too bad you hadda go to work!  Ha, ha, ha!”

    My family has for many years celebrated each holiday, no matter how innocuous.  For example, on Presidents’ Day, we used to dress up as our favorite Commanders in Chief.  Then my brother had to go and spoil it with his Bill Clinton costume.  Meathead got arrested for standing in front of a sorority with his pants down.

"Good times."

    But, for some reason, we never did much to celebrate Columbus Day.  With that in mind, may I offer some suggestions:

10.  Slash the tires of those obnoxious, know-it-all “Vikings were here first!” punks at the Leif Eiriksson Community Center.

9.   Try to convince anyone that parrots, monkeys, and coconuts are just as valuable as jewels, gold, and silk.

8.   Go to the local tribal casino, extend a heartfelt apology, drop a bundle at the craps table.

7.   Put on a wrinkled raincoat, chew on a cigar, try to figure out who put the poison in Miss Van Dyver’s highball...oh, I’m sorry, that’s how to celebrate COLUMBO Day.

6.   Grab some library books, cross out all references to ‘America’ and replace them with ‘Chrisville.’  Draw moustaches on pictures of Amerigo Vespucci.

5.   Bring Christianity to your neighbors at the point of a gun before selling them into slavery, claim your street for your family, pass out blankets riddled with smallpox to the homeless, and shake down passers-by, insisting they tell you where their gold is.

4.   Go to a Chinese restaurant dressed as Columbus, walk in, and shout, “So, HERE’s where you people were all hiding!”

3.   Forward a petition to the city council demanding equal time with Labor Day.

2.   Build a scaled-down replica of Columbus’s fleet, drift aimlessly on the town pond, claim YWCA summer camp for Spain.

1.   Dressed as Columbus, visit a deforested national park (or strip mine), issue “Ooops, my bad!” statement to the press.

    There now, I hope this list inspires you to do something other than complain when you can’t use the drive-up window at the bank. 

    But, if it’ll make you feel better, go get yourself a cannoli.

    Chris would’ve wanted it that way.

 ********

  To my good friends north of the border:

"How about, after we eat, we play a little football?"
"Canadian football?"
"Yeah."
"Naw, that sucks, eh?  Eat your poutine."

  Happy Canadian Thanksgiving!  May your harvest tables be blessed with bountiful feasts and happily free of moose and Celine Dion lookalikes.

  As Martin Frobisher would have said, “Sure, it makes more sense than eating outside in Massachusetts in November, but don’t you think we could’ve thrown in a four-day weekend like the United States?”

 

    

 

Wordless Wednesday XX

 

Santa's Land

 

Since 1958

    As some of you may know (perhaps you don’t...it doesn’t matter), I grew up in Stratford, one of the major towns along Connecticut’s Long Island Sound coastline.  Wedged between the bustling burg of Bridgeport (where Kevlar vests are encouraged) and Milford, Stratford was as good as any place to spend one’s childhood.

    As long as you didn’t venture into Bridgeport after dark.  Or, really, anytime.

    My father loved to take car rides.  He would pick a direction (not south...Long Island Sound, don’tcha know) and then just head out.  I don’t remember how much gas cost back in the 60s, but it certainly wasn’t north of $4 a gallon.

    Most times, we would just motor around the countryside, waiting until my little brother would get sick enough to vomit out the back window at unsuspecting tailgaters.  It wouldn’t be out of the question, for example, for the old man to drive over four hours to Maine to get a lobster roll sandwich.

    He was not a well man.

    One time, though, he took the family canary yellow Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon with faux side wood paneling

This chick magnet would end up being my first car. 
The front seat was a bench, which allowed me to...none of your business.

 to what was, to us at least, the delightful Santa’s Land in Putney, Vermont.

Even though a work of fiction, this is heavily based on real events. 
The chapter, It Has a Brochure, for example, describes a family vacation to the Adirondacks.

    Santa’s Land was one of those ubiquitous roadside attractions which peppered the nation.  Like the uppity Santa's Land in New Hampshire and Land of Make-Believe in New York, they were designed to draw families and their money to small towns.

Nothing screams "TAKE US TO DISNEY!!" quite like this.

    This was before behemoths such as Six Flags, Disney World, and Great Wolf Lodge.

That inside petri-dish waterpark which smells heavily of chlorine and diaper.

    During a recent visit to my brother in Connecticut, we wondered whether Santa’s Land still existed.  Well, after a little research (thank you, Dr. Google!), come to find out, it does.  Although not nearly to the extent it was when we were little kids chaperoned by the Connecticut Road Warrior.

    Santa’s Land was opened in 1957 by a man name Jack Poppele, founder of WOR in New York City.  Apparently, Mr. Poppele was entranced by the beauty of Vermont’s foothills and the financial windfall of a tax break (ok, that may not be true).  So, he figured, why not throw up (pun intended) a quaint little fun park for the kiddies?

    The attraction boasts that it’s been in operation for over 60 years (I could do the math, but it's late).  That’s not really the case, though.  Due to lack of revenue (no doubt exacerbated by the aforementioned behemoths), Santa’s Land closed in 2014.  Not surprisingly, vandalism and the effects of New England weather worsened the condition of the place. 

    However, it was restored in 2017 and plans to open this Fall as Santa's Land USA, nighttime hours only.  

Not to be confused with Santa's Land Canada. 
Not terribly different, but they are wicked polite.

    The rides and animals are gone, sadly, but Santa remains.  Sounds a little depressing, but at least it didn’t fall into total disrepair. 

    When we visited in the 60s, though, Santa’s Land offered an array of attractions sure to make any little kid lose his or her mind.

    NOTE:  Unfortunately, the “Santa Claus Visits Saigon Whirling Tea Cups” ride lasted only one season.

    The venue offered a merry-go-round, choo choo train, a variety of animal exhibits (although, the camel looked strangely out of place, fake antlers or no), elves (on loan from the Brattleboro Little Theater production of “The Wizard of Oz”), and the creepy Rex the Talking Reindeer.

Who apparently didn't make the cut to pull Santa's sleigh.

It also had this, but we really didn't understand its purpose. 
There were a lot of teenagers doing things that I wouldn't understand until my later bench seat in the station wagon days.

    The highlight, of course, was a chance for us to actually speak to Santa, who smelled faintly of gin.  When we asked our mother how the Jolly Elf found time to talk to kids, she replied that, since it was summer, he had plenty of time before the Christmas rush.

    Mom.  Stone-cold liar.

"I'll be honest with you.  It's hot as balls. 
I mean...ho, ho, ho."

    Still, kind of a sucky summer vacation, if you ask me.

    Although, since it was July, I thought all that flannel must have been wicked uncomfortable.  But, I suppose, cut-offs, tank top, and sandals woulda destroyed the vibe.

    Finally, full of sugar from the Bubble Gum Gift Shop and carrying Santa Action figures (no Marvel, mind you), we made our way back to the parking lot and the beginning of a two and a half hours back home.

    Unless the crewcut crazy man craved a lobster roll, that is.

    What no one noticed, though, was the purchase our parents made before we left:

    A commemorative cedar fanny whacker.

From Santa's Land!

    Yep, we got home, we fed that bitch to the dog.

Wordless Wednesday XIX

 

NOTE:  The worm wasn't harmed.  Notice how quickly I was speaking.  Once done, I immediately tossed him into the lawn.  Where was eaten by a bird. 

Nature isn't always pretty, yo.

Nature Calls

     I've seen comments from [other] old men complaining about having to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.  Thankfully, that hasn't happened to me.  Yet.  

    The only thing I need to worry about is the three little furry bastards who wake me up every single morning at 5:30 am to get fed.  Although, I will admit, after I'm done doling out some Kibble, my bladder will say to me, "You know, since we're up..."   

Wordless Wednesday XVIII

 

The Great Urinal Stalemate

    Trust me, you're going to want to click on the link below.  Don't worry, it's not some sort of phishing scam or attempt to lure you into the website for NAMFLA (North American Man-Fish Love Association) for which I can reap rich rewards for each click.

Or is it?

    Really, it's not.

    Actually, while I usually don't post other people's work (mostly because they're generally much funnier than I am), this cracked me up in a "I soooooo know what he's talking about!" kind of way. So, I decided to take a chance and show you what a talented person has to say.  

    So go ahead and have a look.

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1WE74PjhzQ/

    I'll wait.

    Done?  Pretty funny, huh?

    The men among you, I'm sure, are quite familiar with the etiquette involved with using public rest rooms.  Come to think of it, "public" is probably unnecessary.  At home, I have my own bathroom.  I can pee everywhere and leave the seat up, if I want, dammit.  

   But, I don't.  Because I'm a civilized human being.

   And my wife uses it sometimes.

    Anyway, the concept of a "bashful bladder" is a very real thing (he calls it "shy" bladder, but it's the same).  If some dude is right next to me, that thing clams up like a nun's va...

uhhhh, never mind.  Suffice to say, the waterworks don't, uh, work.  What's more, I could be spouting Niagara Falls, but the VERY SECOND someone stands next to me, everything shuts off and I'm forced to stare at a linoleum wall.  I try to take my mind off things like do math problems, visualize bodies of water, think of things I have to do, try to decipher the tiny writing on the grout....WHAT THE EFF IS MY EX-WIFE'S NAME DOING THERE!!??

    If that doesn't work and I can't reestablish communications with my bladder, I faux shake, wash my hands in the sink (which is a good idea, anyway, because I wouldn't have pissed on my fingers in the first place), and then head outside to wait until the inconsiderate urinal hog leaves.

    Then I head back in to finish the job.

    This is if I am already at the urinal.  If I walk into a bathroom and see only two urinals and one is occupied, I choose the stall.  If the stall is occupied, I once again do an about-face and wait out the aforementioned potty patrons.

    If there are three urinals and only one is being used, I will use the one on the end.

Unless the middle is being used by this inconsiderate bastard. 
 If so, out again I go.

 

    Same basic theory goes with needing a stall if I'm suffering a "Crap Attack."  No bashful sphincter there, though.  I am in an enclosed space, don'tcha know.  But, I avoid farting or making noises to confirm that I am doing exactly what the damn thing was designed for in the first place.

This, though.  THIS!

    I will say this, however.  All of the above prohibitions pale in comparison to plopping down on a warm seat.

    In that case, I'll wait to go home.

Now you know the real reason why
Dylan Mulvaney wants to use the Ladies Room

 

Wordless Wednesday XVII