Don't have any ideas about what to dress up as for Halloween? Let me help you.
- Buy a sheet (from Target).
- Cut eyeholes in said sheet (probably not like pictured).
- You're not done yet.
- Place nametag on sheet that reads: "Hello...My Name is Ghost"
- Make very sure that what will be beneath the sheet is awesome (exactly like pictured).
- Place sheet over head.
- Fight off the vagina with a stick.
It was a fairly large party and there were so many Asians there. I have a soft spot in my heart for Asian girls, especially Asian girls dressed as hoochies for Halloween. And, apparently, they all got this memo because tons of them dressed whorish. I later referred to it as a "Category 5 Bootycane" that was heading straight for me.
In fact, to better demonstrate my point, I have created a Venn diagram:While I was at the party, I perfected my new pick-up line: "Girl, I picture us getting you an abortion in the very near future."
It worked on those Asian girls better than a ground-up rhino penis latte.
Some people there had some good costumes, but there was a guy that I wanted to run over with my truck until he stopped being alive. He was a white guy and I guess he was supposed to be Rick James because he kept quoting that Dave Chapelle skit saying, "I'm Rick James, bitch." He's exactly the reason I hate people. That saying was funny the first time I saw it on the show and that's it. For the past two years people have been quoting that like they're the fucking first ones to do it. Like they're a part of some magical get-funny-quick club and all it takes is to say those four mystical words and, instantly, you're not a douche bag frat boy anymore. The more he was saying it, the more my fury grew until I decided to play on his level. I walked up to him and said, "What did the five fingers say to the face?" Then I stabbed him in the throat with my rusty boxcutter.
Two of those girls I wrote about from the previous party showed up to this party and I was never happier to have my entire head covered. Lucky for me, they weren't there for long, but, as they were leaving, one of them came up to me and said, "Nice costume, Kurt." I think this was her way of saying, "Fuck you for not saying hi to me." Then I made the mistake of trying to be nice to one of them when she asked if I remembered her name (which I did--and I made it a point to tell them at the party before that I'm really bad at remembering names--this isn't exactly true, I'm just bad at remembering names of people I don't give a fuck about). I could swear that, as soon as I said her name to her, I could actually hear the vaginal floodgates swing wide open as an avalanche of lady juice spilled forth into her granny panties. She then proceeded to talk to me for a couple more minutes, but I decided I would make it really awkward and just give one-word responses followed by lots of uncomfortable silence.
Don't get me wrong, that last paragraph comes across as though I believe I'm just the dog's tiara (kind of like being the cat's pajamas). I don't believe this at all. But, when confronted with evidence to the contrary, sometimes I like to run with it.
I wound up removing the ole ghost costume a couple of hours into it because the spot I had taken to hanging out in was literally by a blazing fire and I was afraid that, with my limited visibility, I would catch on fire and end up in the "Extreme Videos" section of ebaumsworld by the next morning.
I was going to end this, but let me relay to you what a moron I am.
Ghost costume. Sounds easy to make, right? Not if you're of Forrest Gump mental capacity like myself. I grabbed the sheet and threw it over my head then, for some reason, like a mirror would help even though I couldn't see, I went into the bathroom with a pen in my hand. I stand, facing the mirror mind you, with pen in hand and begin sort of mapping out where my eyeballs are by actually writing on the sheet using the inside of my eyesockets as the template. Without second guessing what a huge lump of near-vegetable-status brain matter I have working for me, I remove the sheet and start to cut. "Easy enough, I think.
Not even close.
The holes that I cut were so far apart they wouldn't even have worked for Rocky Dennis. I had to staple the sheet together four times in order to bring them back into somewhat of an alignment. Surprisingly, I didn't staple my hand to the sheet in this process. I'm worse at tailoring than an army of Thalidomide-tainted babies.
Interesting thought of the day:
If you're a gay man and you want to tell your parents this, it's probably not best to come out to your parents by introducing your boyfriend, Trevor, as your "sodomy pal."