I’ve never understood why some people profess to actually like being terrified. Being scared by something frightening isn’t any more enjoyable than being frightened by something scary.
I don’t see the logic in tossing my hard-earned money at something that’s likely to induce hair-raising nightmares for weeks (or perhaps years) after the fact. I just don’t understand why some people like having their figurative pants scared off. And even if they truly do enjoy such activity, there’s no need to pay for it. If I want to be frightened, I’ll look into a mirror 45 seconds after waking up in the morning, since that gruesome sight comes free of charge.
I think people who claim to enjoy being scared are attention-seekers who are faking their love of the macabre. They say they love being terrified? Fine. Let them imagine walking down some dark, deserted city street late some evening. Hearing footsteps and glancing behind them, they perceive they’re being followed by two 6-foot-10-inch, 350-pound satchel-toting behemoths with swastikas tattooed on their faces and blood dripping from their hands. The alleged horror-flick-lover starts walking more briskly, but the two goons step up their pace as well. Their previously indecipherable murmurings get louder, too. They begin laughing maniacally and chanting “You’re gonna die,” and /or, “Satan, we obey thee.”
Turning down an alley and beginning to run, the pursued individual comes to a dead end. Cornered, their back to the wall, they watch as the uglier of the thugs pulls a chainsaw out of his bag and, flashing an evil leer, starts it up.
I don’t understand people who say they enjoy that sort of thing.
Halloween is without question the most ironic date on the calendar. Most rational people don’t like being scared, yet here’s this widely anticipated day that’s devoted entirely to the worship of ghouls, goblins, and ghoublins (the byproducts of decades worth of ghoul-goblin intermarriage).
It’s been decades since I’ve gone trick-or-treating. That’s partly because not one of my remaining teeth is a sweet one and also because I no longer look even remotely adorable in any traditional Halloween costume. But Oct. 31 is, as previously established, the year’s most ironic day. Therefore, those who insist on dressing up should do so in an appropriately ironic guise, like that of a cheerful grouch, a generous miser, or a slender glutton.
Imaginative trick-or-treaters could really run with the ironic theme. The possibilities are endless. They could dress up as blind optometrists, junk-food-eating dieticians, or as a fireman whose house has burned to the ground. Or why not disguise themselves as sociopathic social workers, vegetarian butchers, or politicians who can’t lie? Other costume possibilities: an airsick pilot, an animal-hating veterinarian, or a chain-smoking health care provider. It would take some impressive padding to create a 300-pound jockey costume, although that particular get-up could be made convincing if the dresser-upper in question could gain access to a swaybacked horse.
Halloween festivities can be exhausting, but thankfully for revelers who don’t live in Arizona, Hawaii, or any of the other U.S. territories that don’t do Daylight Saving Time, this Sunday morning is when clocks get turned back. The resulting 49-hour weekend should provide sufficient time for even the hardiest partiers to catch up on their sleep and wake up relaxed.
Unless their shuteye has been interrupted by nightmares involving 350-pound chain-saw-lugging ghoublins pursuing them down dead-end alleys. <
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