It’s hard to pinpoint the moment at which a holiday for seven year old’s in cute costumes asking for candy became a ballyhooed event for adults to play dress up and get sloppy drunk. You could do worse than betting the time the first woman discovered slutty nurse costumes at forty got her attention she hasn’t felt since twenty.
Almost every woman looks good as a revealing cave girl, latex cat, or schoolgirl. Add three red cups of mint Schnapps’ scented punch and that officially becomes every woman. Maybe the paleolithic era didn’t see muffin tops, but fuck it, I’m Tom Brady for the eighth year in a row and my time is running out.
If only there were a book to discuss such rules as how men might approach Halloween in the tradition of men far more masculine than their millennial descendants. My new paperback Man Rules is officially on early sale, hush hush and all before the blowout announcement, including an excerpt on Halloween costume rules:
“A man knows his costume doesn’t make him the life of the party. A clever costume will never make up for a lack of charm and humor and social graces, at least not until the party attendees are substantially intoxicated. A costume should only be enough to keep a man from punching every third person who asks what he’s supposed to be, and increase the likelihood he’ll be able retire to his shabby couch to indulge himself in that brunette who dressed like Pocahontas assuming porn was thriving in the 16th century.”
As in all things, moderation. You need to wake up a week after Halloween to cast a vote that won’t matter unless you live in the third district of Ohio.
Photo Credit: Frederick’s Of Hollywood