Approximately 723 teens are killed every year in teen horror movies. That's more teens than will die in fraternity hazing and drinking game incidents put together. The average age of these teens? 26. My God, so young. Mere children. Why, these teens are barely old enough to serve in Congress! Something must be done! We must save our extremely old young people!
On this night, the dead rise from their graves and dance around like the ghouls in that Michael Jackson video. The moon hangs in the sky like a big rotten grapefruit and drips blood onto the hook hanging from the car door speeding away from Lover's Lane. Ghosts flit from grave to grave in the pet cemetery where Grandma lies, freshly buried. Her eyes jerk open and she says, "I left a pot pie in the oven!" But do not be afraid. Grandma will attempt to gnaw upon your neck with her undead dentures, she will. But unless they buried her with her walker, the old biddy's looking at a long crawl, along a major road, with lots of truck traffic, and nothing but roadkill to keep her company.
Halloween is great. We love to greet the little kids in their adorable little outfits and rob their buckets. Somebody has to school these young'uns on the urban crime environment, we figure it might as well be us.
We noted that our sister works in "IN-surance." We've always been a redneck at heart, but it's rare that it comes roaring out like it did then. We might as well have asked Ben and Keith what kind of "VE-hicles" they drove.
We hung out with Ben and Keith, fellow Littonians we haven't seen in years. It was groovy. Twenty years had passed since we last laid eyes on Ben. He had a beard, and the beard had some grey in it, but otherwise he looked the same. Keith was wearing a 20-year-old Zappa t-shirt, probably saturated with enough pot smoke and resin to make it worth smoking. They were both shocked to see we'd lost our legs in a tractor accident, but once they got over the prostheses and our glass eye (it's a long story), we headed over to Clyde's for drinks.
Afterwards they were going to see Dweezil Zappa and some of his dad's old cronies recreate the sounds of classic Zappa. We would have gone too, but our hearing isn't what it used to be. Professional boxing will do that.
We sat in Clyde's and reminisced. We talked about our late pal Bill Harrison. Keith said Bill died from an extremely rare form of cancer. Ben was more specific; he said Bill succumbed to "El Camino cancer." Ben has always had the ability to crack us up. He described his job as "the velvet rut." Keith is currently not working, the lucky sap. We described ourselves as "federal deadwood." We always knew the three of us would climb to the top of our various professions.
It was nice catching up with news on friends we hadn't heard about in years. Turns out they're either dead or their kids are in jail.
We've made tentative plans to get together over the holidays. That will be nice. Both Ben and Keith still dwell in our ancestral hometown of Littlestown, and this will be a good chance to walk its mean streets again. We can walk by our old house, and shout at its current owners to get lost. That house is redolent with our misery, and we want it back.