Home for the Hollow Days

Okay. The Thanksgiving holiday season is officially over. And we all know what that means. It's finally time for me to get busy, doing exactly what millions of you are busily doing.

Yep. It's time for me to talk about Halloween.

I know. It's a bit late to get around to anything involving Halloween. I know. By now, I ought to be outside, precariously balancing on a ladder, turning my house's gutters into a traffic-stopping festival of malfunctioning miniature light-bulbs. I ought to be outdoors, tastefully decorating my lawn with Biblically-relevant pre-formed plastic statues of Walt Disney's dwarves, Peruvian-looking wise men and radioactive deer. I ought to be on the internet, trying to figure why some people say "creche" when they mean "nativity scene." I ought to be on my knees, honoring the true meaning of Christmas: free shipping.

I know. I'm late. But, in my own defense: I, like our lame duck Congress, had a lot of work to do.

Unlike Congress, I got mine done.

I don't know if this Congress actually has a duck, but they sure are lame. I did apply for my own "lame duck" permit, but since Congress forgot to pass a budget, all government offices are currently closed. Maybe they're hoping Santa Claus will bring them a budget.

Santa was planning to just give everybody in Congress a lump of coal, but he was stymied after an injunction of estoppel was filed by an activist group of pro-clean-energy environmentalist elves, the North Pole Workers Local #8 (not to be confused with the Vegas Pole Workers Local #42D).

I hate it when Santa gets estopped.

I'm kidding, of course. I'm not here to talk about Halloween. Besides, Halloween's no fun anymore, at least not in my neighborhood. First of all, none of the occasionally-short people who look to me to feed their candy monkey are from my neighborhood. This isn't games and good fun: this is a nocturnal guerilla incursion, calling for facial recognition software. It's nearly dark, there are small strangers standing in my yard, they're all demanding food, and I don't know who they are.

And call me old-fashioned, but I just can't get used to handing out candy to a "child" who drives up in his own car.

When did the trick-or-treat rules change? What's the current cutoff age these days for Halloween? Eligibility to drive? Voter registration? AARP membership? This Halloween, I entertained several candy-requesting visitors who were taller than I. They don't even bother with masks or costumes anymore, unless those eyebrow piercings I saw were purchased as part of a "Disturbed Valley Girl" costume pack at Target (to me, they looked more like part of a Rodent Eradication kit from Terminex). One trick-or-treater had a full-arm-length dragon tattoo. One offered me a smoke. I didn't know if I should be handing out candy or condoms.

And this year, there's a whole new group of "children" who are either speaking a completely foreign language, or who are collectively participating in a shared psychotic episode. I don't know what they're saying, so I don't say a word: I just smile and lob candy. I'm afraid to respond to their unfamiliar chatter, or make gestures, or point, or even nod. For all I know, they're selling vinyl siding, or asking me if I would be interested in a mail-order Russian bride, or running for Congress.

I particularly remember one little cherub who came by. He was, I don't know, 44 inches tall, tops. He wore an eye patch, a black robe and a white cape, and he sported one of those knitted, multi-pointy, jingly jester caps. You know the ones. He looked like a short snowboarding excommunicated stunt-nun after a bad "black diamond" accident.

This stumpy little waif snobbishly scanned my bowl of candy with a critical eye (his good eye), and I swear I heard him snort. Then he pointed and told me which pieces of my pelf he preferred.

"Pfff. Not that," he scoffed. "Gimme those."

I scanned my yard and the curb, making sure there were no nearby grown-ups looking, or any lawyers poised to estop me. For a second, just a brief moment, I entertained a little fantasy involving this manners-challenged munchkin, a favorable breeze and a football tee.

But the mood passed. I blinked, cleared my head, smiled and replied, "No problem, young sir! Now off to bed with you, and remember: don't smoke! Smoking could stunt your growth! Oops! Too late! HA HA HA!"

And then, of course, I tripped him on his way down the steps. Hey, it's good for the ungrateful little candy snatcher. Adversity. Builds character.

He'll need it when he runs for Congress.