Tuesday, October 27, 2009

I’m dreading Halloween

Dear reader Marc sent in this lovely Halloween poster that his daughter made. It won second place in a competition in Croton-on-Hudson, NY. The first thing I said when Katie brought this to me was, “This is total shit. There’s no symmetry. The chamfer is too wide, and the bezel is uneven. And the colors of the icons are all wrong.” Katie was like, Steve, the kids who made this are only 11 years old! And I was like, Hey, I don’t know about you, but when I was 11 I knew how to use a ruler.

Anyway, it’s not their fault. I just hate Halloween. I hate those freaks who get all carried away and decorate their lawns with loads of lights and ghosts and whatever. Seriously, if you’re one of those people, listen up: You need help.

But my hatred of Halloween goes beyond that. Let me explain.


Thing is, I don’t give out candy. I know that’s what the kids want, but I’m sorry. Candy is poison. Would you hand out little capsules of strychnine? No, you would not. So why give out candy? It’s nothing but chemicals. Anyway, this has become this huge deal in Palo Alto. Big bad Mr. Jobs doesn’t give out candy. He gives out healthy pieces of fruit instead. Like apples. (Get it?) And at some point, many years ago, this became a problem. The spoiled little brats didn’t like getting apples. So they started to complain. Then one kid went a step further. He got his apple and walked down the walk and then turned and whipped it at the front door, splattering apple guts everywhere.

The next year, this became the cool thing to do. Go to the Jobs house, get your apple, walk a few feet, then turn and fire. The front of house looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. We had to hire a bunch of guys to come over with water guns and blast it clean. So the next year we shut down. No treats. No candy. Lights off. Stay away. You know what? The little fuckers went out and bought bags of apples on their own, and they came and fired them at our house anyway. Plus eggs. And bags of shit that I just pray was dog shit and not, well, you know.

So, okay, it’s war. I get it. The next year, I get a bunch of guys from Pixar to come over and we make the most amazing Halloween lawn you’ve ever seen, with shitloads of stupid coffins and ghosts and a skeleton playing the piano. We have music, and lights, the whole works. Meanwhile, Larry comes over and brings a bunch of Navy SEAL type guys that he knows. In addition to all the stupid Halloween decorations, we rig up water cannons on the perimeter of the yard and up in the trees, loaded with a mixture of water, bleach and gasoline. We plant IEDs in the lawn, loaded with rock salt, and at each corner we put a dispenser that blasts pepper gel. We lay exposed wires across the lawn carrying enough current to knock you out, but not kill you. Then we put on our black commando outfits, and blacken our faces, and we wait.

Sure enough, the fuckers show up with their apples, and when they get into the lawn — bam! The SEALs start blasting gasoline cannons at them. Larry flips on the electric grid and the lawn lights up and starts crackling. The kids start shrieking and leaping around, because their costumes have caught fire and they can’t put them out. Then the IEDs go off, shredding the kids with rock salt, and as they flee for the perimeter we hit them with the pepper gel.

That was two years ago. Now, as a condition of my parole, I’m not allowed to be at home for Halloween, and the cops look the other way when the kids go nuts on my house. Bah.