Halloween Has Changed

Some score and whatever years ago, our forefathers brought forth on this nation a new tradition, conceived in greed, and dedicated to the proposition that if adults do not surrender their wealth of candy, the neighborhood children may destroy all manners of property. Now, trick-or-treating is dead. It’s because kids today have no survival instincts.

“Trick or treat!  Smell my feet!  Give me something good to eat.  If you don’t, I don’t care.  I’ll pull down your underwear.”

Some score and whatever years ago, our forefathers brought forth on this nation a new tradition, conceived in greed, and dedicated to the proposition that if adults do not surrender their wealth of candy, the neighborhood children may destroy all manners of property.  Now, trick-or-treating is dead.  It’s because kids today have no survival instincts.

 halloween 5

My childhood involved pandering without needing parental supervision.  Adults told us stories about children being mauled by mountain lions to ensure our anxiety kept us close to home.  They shared tales of neighbors placing needles in chocolate bars to tame our greed.  Once instilled with cautious paranoia, we were free to wander alone and demand strangers fill our pillowcases with candy.

We were survivors.  We actively sought ways to escape the dangers of negligent supervision.  In sweltering summers, our parents loved to leave us in the car while they shopped for groceries.  My generation survived because we were smart enough to locate the window crank, as well as strong enough to manually roll down the window.  Darwinism only roasted the weak.

car door roller window

No one even had a cell phone.  We went trick-or-treating completely disconnected and without worry.  If anyone happened to get abducted, we knew how to signal an S.O.S. using the morse code button on our stupidly rectangular flashlights.  There was no predicament we couldn’t survive.

duracell durabeam flashlight

These days, it’s like a kidnapper’s paradise.  Any youngster snatched up this Halloween would certainly have their face made into a lampshade.  Instead of plotting their prison for an escape route, this current generation would just point phones toward the sky, pace around, and pray to see extra bars.  God forbid any child be trapped in such precarious circumstances while subscribed to AT&T.  The poor soul would resign to the ill of fate and weep to the wub-wub brrrrrr-ing beats of Skrillex logging onto AOL via dial-up modem.

silence of the lambs tweet

Anyways, children are the ones to be scared of.  Autism is creepy.

the shining redrum boy

This new generation of children are not even desirable targets for kidnapping.  The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimate that 1 in every 5 children are obese.  All of that extra lard makes for an inconvenient back-breaking haul.  Pedophiles must have at least some standards.  It’s probably very safe to put your portly piggies on a leash and walk them around to meet the neighbors.

The way adult paranoia is reducing society is unfortunate.  Halloween was my favorite holiday as a boy.  My cavities are my trophies.  Now as an adult,  I feel like it’s my responsibility to pass along the traditions of our forefathers.  But times have changed.  Although no one’s a knock’n, I will continue buying large bags of candy and wait in the dark for parents to drag their sweet chubby children to my doorstep.

pedobear pumpkin

I Want to Gain 300lbs in 3 Years

I want to be fat. The world is greener for the pudgy rather than the puny. I’ve been skinny, short, and asian my entire life. Muzzle on a weather vane for a nose and I’m like the perfect platypus of typically unattractive features. My body was not whittled by kind hands.

I want to be fat.  The world is greener for the pudgy rather than the puny.

I’ve been skinny, short, and Asian my entire life.  Muzzle on a weather vane for a nose and I’m like the perfect platypus of typically unattractive features.  My body was not whittled by kind hands.

Everyone always assumes that they’re so original and clever with their jokes.  Trust me, I’ve heard it all.  When I was a boy, quips about my large nose were the most popular.  Classmates cackled about how I was made of wood and must be a compulsive liar.  If Pinocchio was sitting in a chimney, I’d light the match.

“John, it looks like you’ve been lying.”
“I get it.  My face has an erection.  Nice one, Professor.”
“…be a good boy.  And always let your conscience be your guide.”
“Eff math.”

Society believes teasing about thinness, shortness, and good-at-mathness are within acting well-mannered.  I’m supposed to play the clown and compliment the pies being thrown in my face.  “By jove, you’re right! I am indeed shaped like a toothpick. Enjoy anotha pint of ale on me.”

I’m not even allowed to open conversations with jokes about how skinny I am.  Women get insecure and assume I’m bragging.  The last time I ribbed about shopping for my clothes in the kids’ section, every woman became self-conscious and began comparing dress sizes.  I’ve learned how to stand around awkwardly as women judge which parts of my physique are the most feminine, and how my legs would look killer in heels after a smooth waxing.

My mommy says I’m a man now.  I am not flattered by women envying my figure.

Proper etiquette is about making wisecracks behind the person’s back, hopefully a step out of earshot.  I cordially wait until my blubbery friends waddle their sweaty thunder thighs into a safe haven bathroom before I whip on their obesity because I was raised with upstanding values.  No one is ever as dignified to us thinners.

“You never eat, do you?”
“I eat when I’m hungry.”
“Go to hell, John. I’m sick of your crap.”

Working out to be buff is the wrong answer.  Washboard abs are only suited for promiscuous people.  I prefer monogamy and cuddling because I’m in touch with my bitch side.  If I were to hulk up this late in life, I would have to tolerate incessant joshing about always looking angry.  I’m tired of listening to banter.

My best move is to get fat.  Chubby is not good enough.  I want to put on so much chunk that everyone would worry about hurting my feelings.  The world would watch their words, otherwise everyone would have to find a new orbit.  I know people will joke about my fat ass whenever I leave the room, but I couldn’t care less.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Just like stumbling upon starving Ethiopian children, I’ll simply change the channel.

With the extra lard, people will finally find my humor endearing rather than intimidating.  I could tell fat jokes by the tons.  I would be free to unleash the onslaught without coming off as a jerk.  Pound for pound, I’d bout wits with the best of ‘em and the room would die laughing.

I might even get my own television show.  Obesity is so popular that I could establish a career of playing a buffoon husband opposite a sexy younger wife.  The sitcom would be titled “The King of Forks.”  I’d have money and cupcakes by the truckloads.

My maniacal laughter would be perceived as jolly instead of villainous.  I could break into your homes, eat all the cookies, and drink all the milk as long as I wear red.  I’d realize my Sound of Music dream of wearing curtains, and everyone would automatically assume I was a powerful singer before belching a note.

I never had many friends.  I imagine it’d be great to be so rotund, in a classroom, I’d be able to sit next to everybody.

The best benefit is that funny fatties get all the women because they extrude carefree confidence and maple syrup.  When girls tell a fat guy “Oh, you’re so cute and cuddly!,” hugs usually follow.  But whenever girls say to me “Gosh. You’re so skinny. I could probably break you,” they never follow up with a welcomed attempt at crushing my pelvis.

I wish I were fat.  No one understands the trials and tribulations of finding men’s jeans in a 29 inch waist.  Whatever.  The grass is always greener on the other side.  It’s currently past midnight and I’m gonna eat a quart of ice cream.