(Editors note: This is a piece of fiction, so please take it as such. We hope you enjoyed your Halloween.)
Ah, Halloween. Who would ever think a drunken costumed romp through the day of the dead could end in such a rotten fashion?
As I ponder my current state, nude, bruised, beaten and bloodied on the floor of a cell, I am reminded of days when I was a wee lad, and wanted nothing more from the fall festival than sweets. Now sweets make me nauseous, so I am forced to drink and run with the pack.
I don't see how I was so misunderstood on this night. My costume was no more lewd than any I have seen over the past week (when did Halloween become longer than Chanukah, by the way?), yet my exposure was somehow indecent.
I thought I was being normal and purchased a costume that was a bestseller this year. I was a beautiful angel; with my lace panties pulled up tight around my bottom, some nice looking heels on my large feet, and shined up puffy wings upon my back.
Sure my legs aren't shaved, I am a man, and I am all but nude, but this is what's popular goddamnit! How can that be held against me?
I caked makeup on my face, haphazardly applied fake lashes and glitter, and hit the streets on my own two feet.
Within minutes, I felt the full effects of gender bias. While I had observed young ladies in my very same costume receiving catcalls all week, I was greeted with shouts of FRUIT! FAG! And the always-reliable FUDGE PACKER!
Confusion set in, so I decided to go buy a drink. To my great dismay, I was turned away at the door on account of my shirtless-ness, and was told by a less than friendly man "we don't serve crack whores here, sir."
The madness didn't end there.
I saw a pack of pretty young women dressed similarly to me, so I ran over to see if I could find some acceptance. Instead I got maced, and the crack whore thing came up yet again. What is it with people? Is dressing up not part of the holiday anymore? Unwavering on my quest to imbibe alcohol, I soldiered on.
The evening soon took an ugly turn. While at a house party, my wings knocked over a rack of beers in place for pong, and I was soon savagely beaten on account of my appearance and the fact that, being a straight male, I can't run in heels. Now I bled. My silver makeup had smeared all over my lips. It was total delirium.
The world had been a different place for me tonight. Beatings, innuendos at homosexuality and whore comments are not in my usual Wednesday night agenda. Luckily, I found some cops, and decided to ask for assistance. Unfortunately, they were just drunk underage girls and I got maced again.
Now utterly desperate for the protection of the law, I sought out a sheriff's deputy, knowing no one would ever dress up as one of those fat buggers. Upon finding one, the glimmer in his eye told me I had made a horrible, horrible mistake.
All night I had received hell on account that I was a handsome man dressed as an ugly, ugly woman. The deputy clearly overlooked the man part.
I finally got a catcall, but this was a 300-pound sex-deprived Maricopa County Sheriffs Officer after me. Ugly, ugly vibrations raced through my head. As the fat cretin descended upon me, I feebly tried to escape in my damaged state. The last thing I recall is foul breath. Then darkness.
I awoke sometime later and began to scribble this dastardly tale on a napkin, the only thing I found in my cell. I don't know where I am, I don't know what to do, and whatever happened with the sheriff's deputy has already been buried in the inaccessible section of my brain.
So remember kiddies, just because it's popular to dress as a skank-angel, skank-nurse or skank-hoe, it's not right for everybody. Believe me. And also, the sheriff's office is never, EVER your friend. Happy Halloween.
Joey Dougherty dressed as John Wilkes Booth for Halloween. To belittle him, send stuff to: joseph.dougherty@asu.edu.
