Irish Fest is just 140 days away now. That's not long, kiddies. Uncle Bloggy has left-over moo shu pork that's been around longer than that. And in 140 days, the Irish Fest kids' area celebration of early Halloween begins. Part of that Halloween party includes, as all good Halloween parties do, a costume contest. So today Ol' Uncle Bloggy's going to tell you a terrifying true tale of a costume contest gone horribly wrong. And it's true. Did I mention that?
Once upon a time when I was kid, just like you only cooler, smarter and better looking than you, the neighborhood where I lived was getting ready for their annual Halloween party. As usual they were having a costume contest, with the first place winner getting a great prize. I don't remember what exactly, but it was probably something like a pony or a rubber ball or something. Remember kids, Uncle Bloggy is really old, so there weren't things like video games and dice and tasers and the things you kids take for granted at play time. Anyway, whatever it was, I was determined to win it. Problem was, I couldn't think of a really great costume idea. I knew the old standards wouldn't cut it. The party, I was sure, would be lousy with skeletons and witches and hobos (real hobos, actually. Uncle Bloggy grew up in a crappy neighborhood) and that if I was going to win, I needed something really special.
The afternoon of the big shindig, as I walked down the block to the off track betting parlor, I noticed a store I'd never seen before. A creepy looking place, covered in dust and cobwebs. The air around it seems colder somehow than the surrounding storefronts. A combination of excitement and foreboding shivered down my spine as I read the sign over the door: Diabhal's Costume Shop.
Though I'd passed by this spot a hundred times and never seen it, it looked like it had been there for many years. I gathered up my strength and walked in. The place was full of creepy costumes, monstrous masks, diabolical decorations and other alliterative accessories. Behind the counter was a man I assumed to be Mr. Diabhal. His face looked like beef or possibly turkey jerky and not the good kind but the kind they sell in hardware stores. Stringy, greasy white hair hung in wisps down to his shoulders and he was stooped and crooked in posture. He smelled like a tuna fish sandwich, the kind they sell in hardware stores.
When he asked in a dusty voice that sounded as if he seldom spoke out loud if he could help me, I told him I needed something special to win the big costume contest. Moments later, with Mr. Diabhal chuckling softly behind me I walked out with the scariest, ugliest, most horribleist mask I've ever seen. Just before I rounded the corner for home, I turned back for a last look at the creepy old shop...and it was gone! I know, spooky, right?? In its place was a florist or a pottery studio or something totally not scary.
I ran all the way home.
That night at the party, I easily won the costume contest. They gave me first, second and third place. The mask was so awful, few of the judges could look at it for long without throwing up. It was awesome. But awesome turned to awful (that's some fancy writing there, kids) when I tried to take the mask off. It stuck fast and tight. No matter how I pulled, the mask just seemed to get tighter! "Yaaaaggghhhrrrrraaaggghhh!!!", I shouted, onomatopoeically.
Well, kids, I bet you can guess the rest of the story. I'm still wearing that horrible face to this day. So if you hear me coming at Irish Fest this year, you better run. 'Cause I do not look nice. Also, you might step in the throw up from people who looked at me. And that's just gross.
As you begin planning your costume for the big contest, beware the costume shop that you never noticed before. Don't buy a mask from anyone named Diabhal. Or you might end up looking just...like...THIS!
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