Category: Funny Business

I love Halloween.

Always have.

It is without question my favorite holiday – there isn’t even a close second.

Sure, you get presents at Christmas, colorful eggs at Easter, chocolate covered cherries on Valentine’s Day and term life policies on National Insurance Awareness Day, but you don’t get to dress as a werewolf.

I mean, I guess you could, but trying to work a werewolf into a Nativity Scene might be pushing things a bit. Then again, sheep are involved and werewolves like a good sheep now and then, so who knows?

Throw in some silver bullets with that gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and you realize how wise those men really were.

Point being, Halloween gives you the opportunity to be someone else for a day, watch spooky movies, and keep the inside of your house dark so Trick or Treaters won’t ring your doorbell.

As for werewolves, I was rather obsessed with them during my formative years. In fact, I used to take toothpaste to school and, during recess, lick a small bit of Colgate and swish it around so that it would appear that I was foaming at the mouth.

Werewolves, in case you don’t know, tend to foam at the mouth – or at least the committed ones do. And, by god, I wanted to be a committed werewolf.

Fortunately, my grammar school had no guidance counselors, so there was no one to check on me to see if my lycanthropy was interfering with my school work or mental health.

For the record, it was not.

I was an “A” student, and as far as mental health goes, I was as well-adjusted as any boy capable of assuming the form of a wolf while retaining human intelligence could possibly be.

The greatest Halloween, though, came when I was about 8 and my mom bought me a werewolf costume at a department store.

That was back in the days of those hard plastic masks with rubber bands on the back, and rayon outfits that tied around your neck.

The major selling point was that they had to be “flame retardant.”

That was of the utmost importance to my mother, who if she said, “I’ll get you a costume, but it has to be flame retardant,” once, she said it a thousand times.

Apparently, before these outfits came along, Trick or Treaters tended to burst into flames.

I never saw it happen, but I’m sure it was horrific … dozens of children bopping along with their little bags of candy and then suddenly turning into human torches.

And to the credit of the flame retardant costume makers, in all the years I wore their products I never caught fire, nor did any other kids I saw wearing them.

That’s impressive.

Anyway, this particular costume was a Wolfman, and it was reminiscent of the 1941 movie “The Wolf Man,” starring Lon Chaney, Jr.

It was made by Ben Cooper Inc. and, aside from looking cool, there was a sticker on the front of the box letting me know that the mask was ventilated.

That was important, because suffocation slows you down when you’re going house to house.

Knowing I looked menacing and could breathe freely made me more proud of this costume than any I’ve had in my life.

It was great to be with my posse out ringing doorbells, and then have the candy-giving parent or adult guardian tell me how scary I looked.

Of course, there was that one guy who opened the door, looked at me and said, “Oh, you must be a mean dog!”

Dumbass.

I kept that werewolf mask for months, taking it to school with me to augment my toothpaste-induced mouth foaming.

It finally wore out, though, and as I grew a bit older, I began to broaden my Halloween horizons.

I went as Batman for several years, and still have Batman masks, capes and onesies that I wear from time to time.

If there’s one thing I like better than a werewolf, it’s a Dark Knight.

And even though I’ve reached the age where I can order from the 55+ menu at Denny’s, I still have the urge to dress up for Halloween.

And this year, I might even go old school, relieving those carefree days of my youth when I ran around in flame retardant costumes, howling at the moon.

I think I’ll go buy some Colgate.

Editor’s note: This column was originally published in 2018.

Due to the sweltering heat, I’ve gotten in the habit of doing my morning walks in the early, early part of the a.m. We’re talking pre-dawn, no other walkers or joggers out, only delivery trucks on the road early.

I kinda like it because my brain is basically a bag of silverware and steel pots, and the solitude allows me to quell the clanking and arrange my thoughts for the day. For the most part it’s quite peaceful, and I’ve grown so accustomed to my route I hardly even think about it anymore.

Well, I think about it more now.

There’s one leg of my walk that takes me past some woods and it happens to be the most poorly lit part of the trek. It never bothered me until a couple of weeks ago when I was traipsing past the trees and heard a thrashing sound just a couple of feet away.

It was startling.

I can’t remember if I shrieked an obscenity or let out a Hank Hill-style “Bwaaaaaaah!” but it scared me – enough that I feared I was about to be mauled by a bloodthirsty Chupacabra.

And now, practically every day, I hear the same sound in the same place at the same time. Even though I know it’s coming I’m still taken aback, and part of me is waiting for it to finally reveal itself.

But what, exactly, is it?

These are Alabama woods, so part of me fears it could be a deranged Civil War reenactor who is just waiting for the perfect opportunity to capture a Yankee (I’m a Birmingham native but I often wear blue and vote blue, making me a target).

If not a feral human, perhaps it’s a feral hog. These beasts – which are legendary in the Deep South – can reach enormous size and have been known to attack people without provocation.

I tend to doubt they roam the woods I frequent, though.

I live in the city and am nowhere near a farm. If it is a hog, I doubt it’s feral. It might not be fully domesticated, but I’m guessing it at least has a GED.

And really – now that I’ve heard the noise for several days and had a chance to analyze it – whatever it is probably isn’t very large. This decreases my fear of a Civil War guy or wild, angry hog.

I confess, though, that while I was walking under a full moon earlier this month, I hoped it was a werewolf. That would’ve been so cool even though it would’ve had to have been a small werewolf – perhaps a youngster. Better yet, maybe it was a runt werewolf that had been cast aside by his family.

I imagined the runt and I becoming friends, much like Wilbur and Fern in “Charlotte’s Web,” and I’d take him home to live with us and name him Mozart.

But that’s a story for another time.

Realistically, I figure this noisy critter is either a beaver, raccoon or opossum.

There’s a stream near the woods, so that would make a beaver a likely candidate. They like to eat tree bark and grass, and there is plenty available in this particular area.

And with all the tree hollows and snacklets available, it’d be a good place for a raccoon to hang. Plus, it isn’t terribly far from garbage cans, and since their nickname is “trash pandas” they might find the location perfect for their needs.

If I was an opossum, I’d probably love this particular patch of the woods. It’s quiet, secluded, and conveniently located near schools. (I don’t know if possums care about schools but they might … I truly have no idea).

Whatever it is, I’m slowly getting used to the sound and I’m not quite as freaked out about it anymore. I like to think if it was going to attack me, it would’ve done so by now and the thrashing is simply a greeting.

Hopefully one day I’ll find out what this creature is and once we see each other, we’ll have a big laugh.

Unless it’s a Chupacabra.

From what I understand, they have no sense of humor.