Halloween has arrived, like a severed ear sent via Fed Ex to an unsuspecting jockey about to race in the Kentucky Derby. Who knows why that severed ear was sent? Why does the jockey look so happy about receiving the ear? Couldnt someone have just put Gwyneth Paltrows entire head in that box?
These questions have obviously stumped the great philosophers for hours, if not days. None of them, however, have my deep knowledge into the nature of fear. You see, when I look out through my window on Halloween night, I will see a patch of growing grass, a water hose and a tree. But when I look out my other window, the one facing the front, I will watch as children pass by, seeking treats lest they perform tricks. I will watch patiently as gory masks and blood-smeared latex appliances pass by. I will hear the chatter as teenagers complain about how much Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2 sucks. And I will laugh. Then, I will change the channel, because Malcolm in the Middle is finished. But, eventually, I will laugh again, this time with a special timbre of menace. Because none of it approximates the sheer horror, the terrifying awfulness that I have experienced. No one can guess the gruesome stultifying putridness of my most closely held secret. Until now.
You are witness to my revelation. Your gaze will pull from me the darkest secret of the scariest night of my life. You are the magnifying glass to my bit of fuzzy evidence. You are the Matlock to my hapless defense witness. The Tootie to my sneaky Blair. The Mr. Belvedere to my Wesley.
Can you possibly hope to experience the deathly dark spirit of my story without having the hair on your arms wither and fall off into your soup? Can your brave back stand the weight of ungodly burden that your nightmares will visit upon your shaking, frightened body?
Im thinking yeah, pretty much. You know, whatever.
Click here to have your wits pulled out of your brain, and smacked around like they just shoplifted something from a bodybuilding supply store.