Tonight's Poet Corner: An Inappropriate Halloween Story
An Inappropriate Halloween Story
by Belinda Roddie
Pull away the sheet, and the ghost
is still there. She's just tired of your
shit, and sitting on your couch, drinking
your beer and watching the game on your
television set. And if you're wondering,
"How can a ghost drink beer?" then you
need to reprioritize your questioning because
there is a goddamn fucking ghost sitting
on your goddamn fucking couch watching
your goddamn fucking TV. Upstairs,
the witches are mixing your shampoo with
anti-itch cream in order to make a potion
that cures herpes or chlamydia or something,
while the Skeleton King is busy pleasuring the
Zombie Queen on your bed and hoping her legs
don't break off before she climaxes. One
spooky orgasm later, you can hear the werewolves
howling their approval under the full moon that
you swear was hanging in the sky two days ago,
a grinning white jack-o-lantern. But it's October 31st,
and the bratty trick-or-treaters are nagging you for
larger than fun-sized candy bars, so you send
the troops after them: The vampire who wishes
he could eat your leftover garlic bread from
that really good Italian restaurant two blocks away,
the mummies who use up your toilet paper as soon as
you have to take a mean dump, even Frankenstein's
monster, who's hung around for more than a month
praying that people would stop fucking calling him
Frankenstein ("I was the Adam of his labors, for
Christ's sake. Just call me Adam if it's so damn
difficult.") Anything to scare the polyester pants
off those kids who think they can be Iron Man
or a ninja and look cool in a cheap storebought
unitard. Meanwhile, the ghost you called a bitch
earlier is offering you one of your own beers, and as
the clock strikes midnight, you think, "Fuck it,"
clink bottles with her, and wonder if the Skeleton King
and Zombie Queen are done fornicating (has she had
enough boning yet? Eh? Eh?) so you can wash
the sheets before your girlfriend comes home from
the Halloween party down the street.
by Belinda Roddie
Pull away the sheet, and the ghost
is still there. She's just tired of your
shit, and sitting on your couch, drinking
your beer and watching the game on your
television set. And if you're wondering,
"How can a ghost drink beer?" then you
need to reprioritize your questioning because
there is a goddamn fucking ghost sitting
on your goddamn fucking couch watching
your goddamn fucking TV. Upstairs,
the witches are mixing your shampoo with
anti-itch cream in order to make a potion
that cures herpes or chlamydia or something,
while the Skeleton King is busy pleasuring the
Zombie Queen on your bed and hoping her legs
don't break off before she climaxes. One
spooky orgasm later, you can hear the werewolves
howling their approval under the full moon that
you swear was hanging in the sky two days ago,
a grinning white jack-o-lantern. But it's October 31st,
and the bratty trick-or-treaters are nagging you for
larger than fun-sized candy bars, so you send
the troops after them: The vampire who wishes
he could eat your leftover garlic bread from
that really good Italian restaurant two blocks away,
the mummies who use up your toilet paper as soon as
you have to take a mean dump, even Frankenstein's
monster, who's hung around for more than a month
praying that people would stop fucking calling him
Frankenstein ("I was the Adam of his labors, for
Christ's sake. Just call me Adam if it's so damn
difficult.") Anything to scare the polyester pants
off those kids who think they can be Iron Man
or a ninja and look cool in a cheap storebought
unitard. Meanwhile, the ghost you called a bitch
earlier is offering you one of your own beers, and as
the clock strikes midnight, you think, "Fuck it,"
clink bottles with her, and wonder if the Skeleton King
and Zombie Queen are done fornicating (has she had
enough boning yet? Eh? Eh?) so you can wash
the sheets before your girlfriend comes home from
the Halloween party down the street.
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