The Quarterly Grain Report

Holiday Spirit

This week, our average American is discovering that all those terrifying Pagan decorations he purchased just three weeks ago have all taken Wolfman-sized bites out of his pocketbook. (These would be post-transformation bites, of course. Not just run-of-the-mill, super-infected human bites.) He is also coming to terms with his incorrect assessment of the neighborhood children. Evidently they are a) unfamiliar with many of his late 80's references (personified by a horrifyingly lifelike Michael Dukakis mask), and b) well-equipped with paint and eggs. So, as our fine fellow tries to obscure from public view the fact that he is apparently 'GAY,' as well as build his billfold back to its usual thickness, he can look to a recently deceased woman from Delaware for spend-thrift inspiration.

This woman, the pinnacle of human resourcefulness, was filled with so much holiday spirit that she used her own suicide to brighten the day of a few twelve-year-olds. This turned out to be the most realistic Halloween decoration ever displayed in a non-totalitarian country, and to top it all off, it didn't cost a thing! She simply hung herself from the tree in her front yard, and let the oohs and aahs roll in.

And all would have gone according to plan if it wasn't for a few meddling neighbors. You all know the type. The kind of people who can't allow anything to take place on their block without being informed. "Who's car is in Sandy's driveway?" "Is Jack and Marilyn's garden more productive than ours?" "Did Lynne commit suicide?" Some people just can't leave well-enough alone. So, due to neighborhood curiosity, as well as Lynne's lack of foresight, the authentic Halloween tribute only lasted a few hours. She was betrayed by her own familiarity with those across the street.

But had Lynne considered the ramifications of her sloppy holiday execution, she might have been just a tad more creative with her death. Had she considered being outfitted as a clown for instance, or a witch, or simply putting a jack-o-lantern over her head, she undoubtedly would have achieved completely different results. The neighbors, taking into account the time of year, and their failure to remember living next to a dead clown, would have dismissed the swaying body as simple, Halloween tomfoolery. This would have ensured the corpse of Lynne at least a few days to tickle the fancies of all comers. All who desired would be assured of bearing witness to the spooky ornament, and basking in its true-to-life smell.

So let Lynne's story be a lesson to those of you who annually drop upwards of $100 on blow-up, cartoonish draculas that are about as frightening as an unexplained puddle on the carpet. Slightly unsettling, but able to be conquered with a sharp object and/or carpet cleaner. Be more resourceful! Do-it-yourself Halloween decorations are economical and emotionally rewarding.

And on a side note, does the vampire seem to be the ideal concept to animate, put on a cereal box, and warm children up to?
Trina: "What's a rampire, Mommy?"
Mother: "He's a strange man who feasts on your life-fluids until you either die, or acquire a taste for the same thing, and become part of his Nocturnal Army. But you never mind that sweetheart, he's chocolatey! "

posted by Arthur Croft Yates @ 10:20 PM 0 comments

The Death of 1970's Man

The brown paper bag. A device which essentially exists to serve two purposes, but is no longer successful in either.

Firstly, unless equipped with sturdy, stapled handles, the brown paper bag has to be the most awkward approach ever conceived to transfer recently purchased goods from the counter to your car. It would be more effective to wrap all your items up in a cloth, and carry it on a stick over your shoulder. Hobo-style. And if you try carrying more than two bags at once, attempting to do any other thing becomes physically impossible. Such as opening a door, or signing up for an upcoming raffle.

But in addition to making sure that all attempts at carrying groceries are unwieldy and destined to fail, the brown paper bag also been the method of choice in obscuring terrifyingly uncontrollable, convenience-store pornography addictions for generations. Though today, the said paper bag method does not completely hide from view your shameful problem. It only serves to cloak whether you have decided on Enormous Asses, King-Size Queens, or instead opted for Juggs Jamboree. This is no fault of the bag, mind you, but rather the consumer of today, because all but the most savvy of sexual deviants will inevitably be exposed. Primarily because there is no logical reason for discreetly concealing a copy of say...Car and Driver, and tightly clutching it against your breast as you hurry nervously down the sidewalk, glancing from side to side. The paranoid reader of bagged literature is thus revealed, and ostracized from a gasping, child-shielding society.

But such hasn't always been the case. The possible interpretations of passersby would not be limited to under-the-table exploits if this were the 1970's. The golden age of closet addictions of every kind. This was a time when 1970's Man could simultaneously carry on with a cocaine dependency, and also be a well-respected, prosperous, Cuban drug lord. A time when the only thing more shameful than indulging in the fleshly periodicals from time to time, was not doing so. But most importantly, this was an era rife with obscene LP covers. From Alice Cooper to The Stones, Top 40 radio wouldn't let you on the airwaves unless your album art offended somebody. This provided our Man with an extremely convenient and plausible excuse. For if Little Timmy Thompson were to approach 1970's Man, and begin to bombard him with ceaseless, stereotypical, childish questions (Whatcha got in the bag, Mister... and so forth), he wouldn't hesitate to answer: "A John Lennon album. Now run along, you little bastard."

Alas, this artistically creative decade has long passed, and it has taken the upstanding, confident, brown bag literature man with it. It has left in its wake a weak, trembling shell of 1970's Man. A man who can hardly be considered a man at all. For without a viable excuse of what is contained within the brown, magazine-shaped bag, Present-Day Man can only respond with: "Uhh...the um...I don't really...well...you see my wife...uhh...heh heh...is into...birthday card. It's Birthday cards."

Birthday cards indeed.

posted by Arthur Croft Yates @ 8:13 PM 0 comments