Just like every other child, I always looked forward to Halloween (albeit for much different reasons than I do now). Nothing compared to consuming extreme amounts of unhealthy substances while pretending to be someone you’re not in order to forget about your worries. Sound familiar? I don’t think so either.
No Halloween will ever top the classic that was Halloween 2008.
Many people complain about peaking in high school or college, but I peaked at age 5. Like the rizzler I am, I pulled all the kindergarten baddies in my Blues Clues costume.
That cool autumn day was electric — I built a fantastic tower with the alphabet blocks, smoked the annoying kid, Thomas, in a race across the blacktop, and even got a high five from a girl named Becky.
As I hopped off the bus, a tiny bag of candy in tow, I knew that evening was going to be memorable. I convinced my mom to give me extra graham crackers as my snack, and I put in a solid two hours of Mario Kart before trick-or-treating began.
As I prepared to walk out the door, my head filled with pleasant thoughts of candy and toothbrushes (I had three dentists in my neighborhood), a terrifying sight stood before me.
My dad and my uncle were dressed as Teletubbies.
Now, I understand that I watched the Teletubbies on TV, but seeing them in person, when they are 2 1/2 feet taller than you, TERRIFIED me. Luckily, only a few tears were shed (because I was a very, very brave boy) and trick-or-treating was about to commence.
The loot was solid if not spectacular, as I had a few Reese’s Cups and also a handful of Milk Duds.
But things took a turn for the worse when I arrived at the Fitzgerald household.
The Fitzgeralds were notorious for being the neighborhood sticklers. They screamed at any dog that stepped in their yard, got into multiple disputes over where their property ended and did not allow their kids to watch Spongebob. If you’re having trouble recalling a neighbor like that, I have bad news for you: You were that neighbor.
Anyway, as I walked up to the door, I politely asked “twick oh tweet,” fully expecting to be handed a piece of candy. Mrs. Fitzgerald pushed up her glasses and told my dad, “I can’t believe you allow your son to watch such garbage. Blues Clues and the Teletubbies? Do you want your child to grow up speaking gibberish?”
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She then looked at me, handed me a mini flossing kit, and said, “Never too young to begin flossing!” From that moment on, I was always thankful for my parents. The rest of the night went fairly smooth, but I was shaken to my core. I don’t care how much candy I hauled in, I will never forget the trauma. Just ask my therapist: She hears this story at least once a month.
Even in May.
