Worst Halloween Decorum
While everyone’s readying their sexy/punny whosiwhatsit Halloween costumes this year, we are Not Amused. Costumes, to us, are in poor taste, and are only an excuse for people to behave in discordance with societal norms.
As Donnybrook, it is our duty to uphold standards of conduct even when the world turns into an anonymous slutty horrifying coke-fueled gangbang. We will be AT! your party, NOT! in costume, HANDING! out citations for poor decorum this Halloween, and we DO NOT! take kindly to bribes in the form of jello shots, candy, or poor jokes so do NOT! even try.
Below is a list of the worst Halloween decorum we’ve witnessed, from the verrry specific to the general. In fact, this Symposium even inspired two short stories HERE and HERE, one of which is true, you be the judge. Some of these bad behaviors were witnessed at such a close proximity that we were the ones carrying them out but lest ye judge!, it was still very frightening for us too.
Bathroom Orgies and Performing CPR When Not Actually a Nurse
For all the poor behavior I’ve witnessed on Donnybrook, the worst night had to be at a Halloween fetish ball which, in some horrifying twist of fate, I attended with my two siblings. We didn’t quite know that it was a fetish ball; we only knew that it was a Halloween party at a warehouse. Both of my siblings, in their inferior knowledge of the festivities, were dressed up like clowns, which only made them seem as though they had a perversion for them.
I conveniently happened to be donning a naughty nurse costume, but before you say anything, this was FAR before slutty costumes were popular, and mine wasn’t exactly slutty in the amount of skin it showed – the identifying features of my costume included a nurse’s hat bedazzled with the words “BEND OVER,” surgical gloves, and a neon blue pageboy wig. I believe I was nineteen at the time.
It wasn’t until we entered the building, filled with men being led around by nipple chains, that we realized this wasn’t your everyday Halloween party. Luckily, we were so drunk that it didn’t even faze us. We even led those men around on their chains, laughing. In fact, it wasn’t until much later that the bizarre behavior we witnessed connected in our minds with the fact that it was a fetish ball.
For example, there kept being lesbian orgies in the girl’s bathroom. Each time I entered, there would be chicks getting it on in the stalls. I’m sure my decision to enter the men’s room was innocent to begin with, as there were no available stalls in the women’s room, but once I found myself in there, drunk, surrounded by men, and dressed up like a naughty nurse, a plague of evil took over me, and I decided it was time to make a party of it. Mostly I took a lot of pictures. I snapped photos of the men urinating, none of which seemed to mind – and in fact I called my sister in to take photos of me, posing with the men like it was the proudest day of my life.
As we were all shuffling out at the end of the night in a giant crowd, a man dropped down to the ground and started flopping around like a fish out of water. It appeared he was suffering an attack of some sort, and all of a sudden I felt hands from the crowd guiding me towards him. I dropped to my knees, pumped my hands on his chest, and counted to arbitrary numbers loudly while looking away at some nonexistent ambulance helpers on their way. It wasn’t until I was en route for mouth-to-mouth CPR that I spotted a glint of awareness, nay, dastardly intent in his eye, that he wasn’t injured at all, and luckily I caught myself before contact was made. Saved by a near inch, we left the fellow, who seemed well enough, and went to Pete’s Kitchen at 4 AM.
I might have also taken some mushrooms that night.
- Angora Holly Polo
Giving Out Sexually Transmitted Diseases
“Chlamydia!” I shouted gleefully before smacking the stranger with my wand. The plush star-shaped tip, covered in glitter, bounced off his shoulder ominously. I thrust my hand into the small seafoam green felt bag in my other hand–fashionably affixed with pink applique flowers–and fished out a condom.
“Have a happy Halloween!” I squealed before moving on to my next victim.
The white tulle ballgown was about three-feet across so that I had to turn sideways to walk through doorways. The sash ominously warned in big block letters of the fate about to befall the next partygoer. Even now, so many years later, I can see that the “STD Fairy of Doom” was the greatest costume I have ever pulled off. There are just some things you can get away with as a cute barely post-jailbait nineteen-year-old.
Ah the memories of running through the party, beating people with that wand, bestowing them with a variety of venerial diseases. It might not have been the most tasteful idea, but a hundred people and one empty seafoam green felt bag later I was the belle of the ball. Because everyone likes the condom girl…
- Belle von Bonaventure de Bacon
Underage Drinking in Arab Lady Costumes
Back in my early college days, some friends and I filled ourselves with the finest alcohol, practically swimming in it, in a friend’s freshman dorm while preparing for a frat/sorority Halloween party being held at a local bar & soul food restaurant. One friend, whom I will call Coco, as that was an affectionate nickname of his at the time–the reason why alludes me–dressed himself as an Arab woman with stylish eye makeup he called “smoky eyes.”
After whooping it up with tequila shots, sucking limes followed by shared glasses of wine, once we felt superbly creepy and crawly we set out to the party so we could get our night proper freaky. As this party was The Place To Be, at least if you were a freshman, outside of the bar a huge crowd took over the entire sidewalk and we had to stand there and wait, unable to get in due to fire codes.
Speaking of fire codes, a fire engine rolled by for some crowd control–then I noticed that Coco had fallen right asleep (or worse!), his smoky eyes shut closed, his figure slumped against the wall, crumpled on the ground. An ambulance came. Water was offered to Coco, though the police suspected us of pouring more vodka down his throat and weren’t having any of it (did I mention we were all underage?). Coco vomited on my left arm. Everyone in the crowd was watching to see what the fuss was about and somehow, with our friends lost in the growing crowd, I had become the sole friend to make sure Coco wasn’t dying. He was taken to the hospital (no one allowed to ride with him) and we didn’t hear from him until much later the next day. He became “that guy.”
- Niles “Junior” Bellefonte
ED’s NOTE: all drinking aside, probably never a good idea to dress up as a different race for Halloween.
Dry Humping Dead Old People
Halloween is epic for the Arabella’s – it’s the one time of year where we can actually remove the put-upon every day costumes portraying us as some sort of decent form of humanity and be the rich, uppity cunt-bags we truly are down to our core. Every year Mumsy flies the entire extended clan and all of our friends to take over the Grand Ballroom at The Fairmont Copley Plaza in Boston for a night of crazed debauchery – it’s like Christmas but for evil people – so a few years back she decided it would be “fun” to invite all of her lovers to share the space together. When I say lovers I mean pretty much every rich prick over 40 on the East Coast.
So one of them, for anonymity’s sake we’ll call him “Fernando” because I like that name and I’ve been listening to a lot of ABBA lately – anyway, Fernando decided that he wanted to get on Mumsy’s good side this year to ensure a holiday season full of more treats from the Arabella “kitchen” so to speak. And in order to do this, Fernando decided it would be a good idea to break off some of that Latin lovepiece to our dear Grandmummy Arabella – whom he believed had been sitting alone in the corner all night.
Fernando made his approach and began to engage in small talk with an unresponsive Grandmummy. Emblazoned by her seeming coyness, he began to softly blow in her ear and kiss her neck, ignoring the disgusting smell of mothballs and White Shoulders. By the time we found Fernando he was fervently dry humping the stuffed, dried up scarecrow we dragged out of the attic every Halloween and shoved in a corner. Grandmummy Arabella had been dead for years.
- Alastaire Blake Arabella
When there isn’t a snow storm on Halloween, Coloradans can get so excited that things get out of hand. More than a few years back I made a trip up to the least prestigious “party” town in the state on “The Hill” in Boulder. The long trek from Denver came with some generous pre-game flip-cup (when in Rome), which meant I arrived on “The Hill” just in time to watch four police officers try to force a red-shirt outside linebacker dressed as a Chippendale Dancer into the back of their cop car. The Boulder PD wasn’t up to the task of putting a kid who had more PEDs and alcohol in his system than blood into custody. Luckily, they were up for trying out their new riot gear and riot tank.
CU students were so enraged they couldn’t get ape shit crazy and burn shit in trash cans without some square business owner making a stink. The Riot Unit marched down the street while bottles, rocks, and freshly carved jack-o’ lanterns hit their shields. They made it to The Fox theater and just stopped in front. It could’ve been that everyone in the Riot Unit was a huge Interpol fan and just assumed this was the best way they could get tickets, or maybe that was where their jurisdiction ended and fraternity rule took over. Whatever the reason, the cops set up shop there. People surrounded them and continued to hurl things at them. They wouldn’t let anyone get too close without using rubber bullets, so there was a nice radius around them. The highlight of all my Halloweens happened next: Four sororities sisters dressed as the Senior Girls from Dazed and Confused who looked clueless that there was even a riot going on decided to walk right through the cops’ precious perimeter, and one of the girls got shot with a rubber bullet. It was a great moment. The shot was met with a hardy chuckle by everyone involved in the riots. The only person not laughing was the girl who actually got shot. She cussed out the cops for the next five minutes. It was a nice turning point in the riot. Things were taken a whole lot less seriously after that, which is why the Riot Unit broke out the tear gas – they didn’t think these college kids were giving the riot proper respect.
- Fritz Godard
Handing Out Not-Candy
Hey Little Old Lady with all the cats who smells like death and passes out orange painted pencils with black erasers or black painted pencils with orange erasers or black pencils with white ghosts and little white Casper erasers instead of candy… STOP IT! Do you realize that kids can’t even WRITE anymore? Instead, maybe you should be handing out mouse pads or replacement index fingers so kids can supplant their worn down, scabby smartphone-addled fingers. Hell, I’m sure they’d even take a penny or two, what with this pre-Apocalyptic recession on! If you’re going to pass out pencils at least try to hide them in caramels like everyone does with the razorblades!
- Baron Chrysler Le Baron
Sluts Engaging in Sluttiness, Men Engaging in Punniness
There’s no such thing as a cool costume for chicks. Every year, every lady in America under the age of 28 says “I’m gonna be the sexiest blank that has ever blanked on Halloween!! And I’m the first person to think of making blank SEXY!!” No longer can a chick just be a mouse, or a nurse, or normal old Katy Perry on her day off. Noooo, we now have to be a sexy mouse, or a sexy nurse, or Katy Perry with the whipped cream boobs, all because YOU had the brilliant idea of being SEXY blank. What’s up, ladies? Too chickenshit to wear straight up lingerie, or just go buck naked and call it a night?
OH and gentlemen, I haven’t forgotten about you- don’t EVEN get me started on the bullshit you all pull. The only thing more annoying than the sexy christmas elf wearing stilettos and glitter is the dude who has to explain his costume because it’s SO PUNNY HARDY HAR HAR. So you taped cereal boxes to your shirt and you’re carrying around a knife? So, you’re a serial killer? I get it. Hilarious. Oh, you’re carrying around a copy of the New York Times, which you periodically open and stand behind, showing that you are Behind The Times? And now you’re just waiting with that expectant look on your face, waiting for MY face to light up with laughter and appreciation for your genius? I GET IT, REALLY. Ugh. That two minutes of mine that you just wasted explaining your “costume” to me? I want that two minutes back, dammit.
- Ivyy Goldberg Esq.
Getting Slazy With It
Oh, god, this is embarrassing, but I, dear readers—yes, Lily Stamper Lalage herself—broke the first rule about Halloween decorum: I got slazy (slutty-lazy) with my costume. That is why, at the tender age of 19, I showed up to a Halloween party with three of my fellow—wait for it—Hooters girls. And we saw four more within five minutes of walking through the door.
I could say all sorts of things about the purpose of Halloween from the ages of 18 to roughly 25 for the hardcore biddies. It’s an excuse to get drunk and let your tits roam free—there’s no denying that. But I broke the most important rule: always take your costume seriously. Slutty or not, get creative. Or else you’ll be just another generic set of tits in the crowd. You blow it off and get lazy? You’re no better than the seven other biddies walking around in the same fucking outfit, tugging at the child’s x-small that they claim is a woman’s large. Buck trends. Be different. Don’t blend in with the commonfolk. Don’t dress like Snooki this Halloween, or I will fucking rage.
- Lily Stamper Lalage
Adults Wearing Costumes At All
I haven’t left the house with the intention of partying Halloween-style in years. Halloween doesn’t matter to me and it really shouldn’t matter to you either, but it strikes annually as a reminder of poor taste. Like Mardis Gras parties that happen anywhere other than New Orleans, Halloween offers the disconnected and the elevated yet another excuse to document time travel. As we all know – wake up covered in your own piss and bleeding from your nose on a bathroom floor and you’re a disappointment. Do it in an Elmo costume and you’re the motherfucking man.
Blame social media. I do.
The occasion can have a certain charm to it when its for the benefit of children. I still remember the joy I felt when I realized the the games I played with my imagined forms of self could, for one day, be lived beyond the confines of my backyard. Then we grow into people that can be taken seriously, people that can be respected by their ability to look back on the things of childhood and smile while never considering perverting them with the hideous present.
But if we don’t turn out like that, we probably move to San Diego. We probably wait for the Halloween of 2010. We buy a ticket to get into a sectioned off area of downtown in order to wait in line at a bar in order to buy a ticket to get into said bar and spend approximately twenty to thirty minutes obtaining one beer (because the party before you, despite waiting in the same drink line as you for the past whatever amount of time, gets to the bar and turns to each other belching “LOL WHAT DO YOU GUYS WANT? DYOUWANNADOSHOTS? LETSDOSHOTS! WHURRS DAVE? HIS PISSIN? LESSWAIT FER DAVE”). We probably won’t even get drunk that night. We probably won’t even get laid. But fuck it – at least there are photos of us dressed up as characters from Sesame Street…BUT WE’RE DRINKING BEER AND SMOKING CIGARETTES LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL. As long as people see us on Facebook, as long as they assume we were the life of the party, we can feel better about cuddling our body pillows each and every night we spend alone.
- Dr. Lazarus Helm