Cat in the Hat

Sonja has left the Hammer and I alone to hand out treats to the neighbourhood threats. Usually Sonja takes the door and compliments the wee fuckers on their costumes and socializes with their parents. Instead of getting Sonja, as polite and sweet a Canadian as there is to chat with, they get me: a half-drunk out-of-work logger in a Hells Angels t-shirt and a map of Africa on his crotch.

Just before the first kid showed up I put a cassette of Black Sabbath's first record in the deck and turned it up LOUD. That record is scarier than all the Hallowe'en movies ever made.

When I was a kid, admiring Orland Kurtenbach punch out the lights of other tough guys, we made all our own costumes. That was before we found out we could pay a pile of Chinese fuckers a bowl of rice a day to make our costumes for us and ship them over here to be sold at the motherfucking Wal-Mart for $10. I am six beers into Hallowe'en and I have not seen a homemade costume yet.

Last year the fuckwads on city council decided we needed yet another 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Blow Off Shitloads of Fireworks at Hallowe'en or Any Other Fucking Time. I feel sorry for the kids. How much fun can Hallowe'en be without the risk of blowing your own head off or having someone else launch a rocket at you?

P.S. The last visitor to the Haunted Hockey House was the Cat in the Hat. The costume was homemade sharp and the face make-up spot-on. The girl looked so much like the real Cat in the Hat the Hammer launched herself at the trick-or-treater through the door as soon as I opened it. The Cat in the Hat put herself into a cat stance and hissed like a flattening tire at my predatory dog. The Hammer turned tail and ran back into the safety of the house. The Cat in the Hat got extra-extra candy.

The Cat in the Hat taught me to read. The Cat in the Hat is motherfucking cool.