By CHRIS PACKHAM
Happy Halloween, y'all, 'tis the spooky season to be terrifyingly jolly, if you're into that kind of thing. I'm more of a "Fourth of July"-type guy, myself, what with my Uncle Sam beard and the soaring apple-pie spangled eagles tattooed upon my magnificent biceps, but hey, man, whatever "fries your burger," y'know? I think I'm going to hand out lit sparklers to the l'il ghouls and Spongebobs who knock on my door tonight, or — for safety — unlit sparklers and a pack of matches.
After the jump, the final Daily Briefs of the month of October. Click here, or alternatively, click on yourself:
Stay off the moors: It's Halloween, or — as the Earth Mother Wiccans and Theosophical Society members know it, "H'all'owe'en." Derived from an ancient Celtic harvest festival called Samhain during which children would dress up as Cthulhu and collect whatever the Celts used for money, and donate it to CUNICEF, which stands for Celtic UNICEF, it's now observed primarily as a useful opportunity for douches to self-identify by dressing up as the Joker.
CHILDREN 12 AND UNDER ONLY, you guys. Honestly, are you one of those creepy grown-ups who show up at Chuck E. Cheese by yourself? No? Then you need to take a hard look in the mirror, and ask yourself why you're dressed up like Harry Potter. Now look down — you see that enormous, groin-obscuring gut? That's a signifier of physical maturity, like the distinctive silver patch on the back of an adult male silverback gorilla. Doctors recognize it as a precursor of serious cardiac disease, a rarity among children, for whom Halloween was intended in the first place. There are priveleges and responsibilities you accepted when you became a grown-up, like the awesome combination of beer and guns, but the flip-side of the coin that came with your Harvey Dent costume is that you have to give up strawberry Hubba Bubba, Lunchables, Happy Meals and fuckin' Halloween. Now check your blood sugar, pop a diabetic candy in your mouth, and put on your grown-up pants. We'll take up the issue of adult kickball leagues at a later date. In conclusion, here is a picture of your dad:
Go climb a wall of dicks, Joe Klein. Go take a long walk on a short pier made of dicks: Back in 1994, the Republican party, as seen on TV's Walker: Texas Ranger, and led by philandering cultural firebrand Newt Gingrich, swept Congress with double-digit gains and took control of the House and Senate for the first time since monkeys touched a big monolith and figured out how to make abstinence-only sex education out of the bones of cute li'l Palestinians. Kubrickian reference sponsored by the Campaign Committee to Elect Merkin Muffley, y'all. Arthur C. Clarke may have invented com-sats, but that was in the fuckin' 1920s, and what has he done for Bell Canada lately? Remember back at the beginning of this paragraph when I was talking about 1994? That November, Time Magazine commemorated this electoral avalanche by printing this dramatic illustration on the cover:
Pretty well sums it up. Twelve years and three horrible Star Wars movies later, the Democratic party made similar double-digit gains in the House and wrested control of the Senate, which nobody predicted would happen without deploying ass-covering qualifying adverbs. Time, under the editorial auspices of silly DC fancydancer and giant Massengill applicator Joe Klein, printed this decidedly undramatic, willfull misinterpretation of the electoral results:
A Venn fucking diagram, you guys. Now, people who can stand reading Joe Klein's blog have pointed to his editorial abandonment of John McCain as evidence of a liberal bias in the media, when in fact, Klein's nothing but a lagging indicator of wind direction and velocity and also a giant plastic bottle of vinegar and water. The man's cocktail party invitations are about to go the way of his nuts, y'all, and he knows it. Although Obama's historic win and the Democratic congressional sweep will probably be commemorated on the cover of Time with a diagrammed sentence or some damn thing.