You can’t spend a night — or the requisite Collegetown three — of dressing like a sexy police officer, Sarah Palin or an oversized pumpkin and come out smelling like roses. This week, the Daze staff share their wildest moments from All Hallow’s Eve: raw and (mostly) unedited. From disastrous high school pranks to men whose fetishes happen to be your specific Halloween costume, writers divulge their best and worst nights. It may have been a long time since elementary school going door-to-door; but that doesn’t mean the tricked and treated memories are far gone. So when Friday (and Thursday and Saturday) come along and the inevitable good and bad times happen, just be glad you weren’t us.
Thief in the Night:
When I was in seventh grade, a group of my friends and I were walking back to this girl’s house, ready to start the traditional Great Candy Trade when this guy, maybe mid twenties, runs between me and one of my friends, from behind, and steals our candy bags. He ran away and jumped into a white Mercedes. I had one of
Halloween Patriotism: Not. Fun.:
As a kid, we used to take for granted the whole “trick-or-treat” idea, and expected only treats — until one fateful year when the secluded old lady started giving out candy. For the love of democracy and love for all (and wanting an extra piece of candy), we visited her. She forced us to sing the national anthem to her over and over, until we sang it cohesively and on tune enough to give us a “fun size” Snickers.
Furry Fetish? Not So Much:
Last year at Watermargin’s Halloween party, some friends of mine and I ended up going as some form of animal … what a cute menagerie we were! At any rate, all was going relatively well until near the end of the night when someone stopped me on the stair as a line of us were trying to get upstairs. He said, slurring over his words, “I just wanna say … that you guys really complete my furry fantasy. Seriously.” The worst part about this story is that I didn’t remember the interaction until, like, two days later. Knowing me, I probably thanked the dude profusely for the creepy compliment.
Little Girls and Boys, Beware:
I signed up to be a “trick-or-treat” apartment in my building so people would ring my doorbell. I was the second person to sign up. Does that make me a pedofile?
Did You Learn Nothing From The Blair Witch Project?
My senior year of high school my friends and I decided to go camping on Halloween. In the afternoon, we went to where we were camping — really just the woods of my friend Simon’s horse farm — and set everything up. We left the camping area ready for when we came back after dark and went trick-or-treating in a nearby neighborhood.
Over-sugared and several drinks in, we walked from Simon’s house into the woods, only to discover that we were lost. After wandering around aimlessly for a few minutes, Simon realized that we weren’t lost — the tents and all of our stuff had been consumed by the fire but it hadn’t spread any farther! Must have been those Halloween ghouls …
The Eternal Quest for Unique Ho-ishness:
Ah, the eternal riddle: How can one be slutty while simultaneously being original on Halloween? It’s as if decades ago, females comprised a list of all objects and occupations and added the word “slut.” We’ve got the Slutty Doctor, Slutty Pumpkin and even the Slutty Disney Princess. Somehow, though, everybody looks exactly the same. Freshman year, a few of my friends got creative and opted for the Slutty Bumblebee. It seemed flawless … who else would dress as a slutty bug?
After Halloween weekend, my friends filed into English class with disappointment and disgust written across their faces. “We don’t want to talk about it,” was all they said.
Now class started and our grad student “teacher” started class by talking about Halloween. “I don’t know if I saw any of you out this weekend but I hope not … Let’s just say I was wearing an innappropriate costume that resembled a bumblebee.”
My friends’ heads were all hung low. I’m glad I decided to be a hippie that year.
No Tricks, Just TREATED:
My always classy high school has a long standing tradition (back to the 1800s, most likely): The minute the last bell rings on Oct. 31, malicious and brave students alike head outside to egg every person, plant and unsuspecting teacher in the line of vision. I managed to avoid the aborted-chicken massacre for a good three years …
… Until senior year, when I managed to get the best parking spot: the front row right corner, right in the freakin’ way of the so-called festivities. Outside I go, and there is my car, dripping with egg juice. That’s what I got for driving to school when I only lived three blocks away.
— J. A. B.