A Halloween Dilemma

A browsing session through a Halloween store last night brought me to a display case that was like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.  After years of searching and coming up empty, I’ve finally had the pleasure of seeing a plethora of real merkins, up close and personal.  It also made me briefly consider changing my costume from Chynna Phillips to something involving the pubic wig.

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It was impossible to contain my excitement, and when my eyes met with the bundles of hair, words stoutly poured from my mouth

“Look, they have merkins here!  Awesome!”

The three people within ear shot tried to ignore me, though I noticed the confusion in their eyes.  If only I had two minutes to explain, they’d be equally excited.  It wasn’t to be, though, and the surrounding people cautiously moved to another section of the store.

groucho_marxThe merkins were, logically, located next to the mustaches, though one could use the mustache  shaped merkins that would make your junk look something like Groucho Marx if you flipped his head upside down and disregard the lazy eye.

Since this was a higher end costume shop, they have both human and Yak hair.  I never bothered to ask a salesperson which was more expensive, though venturing a guess, I’d say the Yak.  It’s easy to cut off a willing human’s hair.  A Yak, being a wild animal, would most likely put up some kind of fight.  Though human hair would look more realistic, once the difficulty of acquiring the hair is taken into consideration, Yak hair prices would increase due to hazard costs.

If I had to choose one, it would be human hair.  Why, you ask?  Whitney Houston said it best:  “Yak is wack.”

Trollop Watch ’09: Knotts Berry Bitch

HauntThis weekend, I had the pleasure of patronizing the annual “Knotts Scary Farm,” the Orange County Mecca of Halloween Entertainment.  It’s the home of numerous haunted mazes, roller coasters that seem to go faster in the moonlit sky, and the stomping ground of a teenaged trollop who didn’t bring enough cash for a soda.

After a long evening of fun, I headed toward the exit, hand in hand with my girlfriend.  Through the throngs of people, I heard a faint cry for help.

About 15 feet to my left, a girl who looked between 14 and 16 years of age was standing next to a food stand with her hands waiving at any and every person walking past.

“Can you spare dollars?  I’m short on money for a soda,” she said, politely.

Unfortunately for her, I was out of hard cash and wasn’t about to buy her a $4 beverage with my debit card.  I looked at her, smiled, and said sorry, but no.

Her extended hand soon turned into a fist and her middle finger pointed up in retaliation.  The rage immediately built within me, and I retorted with the first thought that came to my head:

“Thanks for giving me the middle finger, you cunt.”

We kept walking and I was unable to see her reaction.  One could guess it was apathy, as that was probably not the first time she’s been referred to as such.

To my surprise, my girlfriend did not chastise me for using the C-word.  Partly because she was tired, but mostly, I think, because she agreed.

Upon arriving home I opened up a can of Coke Zero and dumped its contents into the sink as an act of defiance to this horrible human being.  Hopefully, she went home thirsty.  If it were up to me, she’d never again be able to enjoy a soda pop for the rest of her life, not even the generic brands.

Trollop.