Halloween Protocol

It's 7:23 PM. Powell Manor has now been hit by perhaps 5 trick or treaters, and not a damn one of them was wearing a costume. If these kids won't make a serious attempt at a costume, then I'm not going to make a serious attempt at distributing candy. You want Milk Duds, Mr. No Costume? You're getting a multivitamin. Skittles? We don't have any; we do have plenty of powdered mashed potatoes, though. NO COSTUME, NO CANDY: these are the Halloween laws.

I really don't get why these kids wouldn't have a costume. That's the best part of Halloween. When I was waiting to put on my Burt Reynolds costume on Saturday, I was shaking with a anticipation. Strapping on the gear and painting the mustache was literally the best part of my weekend. And when I was a little kid, it was that exciting times 10. (The one exception was the year I dressed as Hank Aaron, and no one knew who I was. In my book, skin color don't mean a thing when it comes to trick or treating.)

I'm too old to go trick or treating, but I take my duties as a candy distributor very seriously. When I was younger, there were people in my neighborhood who lived to thwart Halloween revelers. They'd give out raisins, pennies, and apples. These people should've realize that for maybe one extra cent, they could've purchased actual candy, which would've led to far fewer little maniacs stuffing these folks' mailboxes with rocks and dog poop.

I realize they're trying to encourage sound living habits with all of that, but Halloween may not be the best night to try something along those lines. Midway through their candy bag, no little kid saw the apple and thought, "You know, healthy food can be delicious," or unwrapped the pennies and said, "This inspires me to get into a no-load mutual fund." No, it just made us mad. And since I value my mailbox and the contents contained in it, I give candy.