Suddenly it all fell into place. She didn't have enough money for a car, so why not dress up like one? And no need to buy insurance.

I told the catwoman, "I have this theory that Halloween is all about fantasy."

"I think cats are sexy," the catwoman said.

"Cats in fishnets, especially," I acknowledged, noting her legwear.

"I think bugs are sexy," the ladybug said, and giggled until her wings trembled ridiculously.

At this point, the tape gets distorted. (You think I remembered this from memory?) We had left the party, and you can make out something about a band of thieves on the town, including a majorette, a faerie, a man in drag, and Beetlejuice.

"Did you talk to the man with the 20-foot shlong?" the catwoman asked.

"Yes. He told me he was dressed that way to make up for his own personal inadequacies. I don't know if I believe him. ... Someone said they saw him in biker shorts earlier and it blew their mind ..."

"Did he have any particular comments about his swollen testicle?" she asked.

"Uh. He didn't explain why he only has ONE. ... but, I suppose, you know, there wasn't time ... to create another one."

The 20-Foot Shlong Man had apparently been short one styrofoam ball during costume construction; either that or he'd lost one doing a keg-stand.

The catwoman continued. "I fear it's some strange phobia of elephantitis of the testicles."

"Yeah," I said. "I think he's making fun of it because, you know, maybe it's a problem he's actually developing on his own. And he just doesn't want anyone to know."

"I bet he dreams about it every night."

"Well, you know, maybe it's a latent homosexuality that we're dealing with here," I said.

"Should we ask him?"

At this point in the evening, or I should say, at a point about half an hour later in the evening, I sat on the tape recorder and rewound it to this point, obliviously pressing record and taping over our confrontation of the man with the 20-Foot Shlong, who, as I remember, denied everything.

As we roamed streets crawling with fur, feathers and glitter, I tried desperately to capture it all as we passed. "We've got a camo dude. We've got a faerie and we've got an indescribable guy in a flannel shirt who will not admit to being EITHER Kurt Cobain or the guy from the Blair Witch Project. We've got a vampire with no teeth. A heavy metal chick. And miscellaneous hellions and thieves of all sorts," I rattled into the tape recorder.

Now here was a definite mystery. "Why are you a vampire with no teeth?" I asked the toothless vamp.

"I lost my teeth," the vampire replied.

"You lost ... How do you lose your TEETH?"

"Well, I bit into an apple ... And they fell out."

"So, you're kind of a Snow White vampire."

"The Princess of Darkness."

"The Princess of Darkness! ... With no teeth." At this point, I succumbed to a revelation made possible by the accumulated wisdom of three beers, one glass of punch and five JELL-O shots. "You know, Bela Lugosi never wore teeth! I keep trying to tell people this! They don't listen! Bela Lugosi did not wear fake teeth! He was a vampire with no fangs! Think about it."

 

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