Wet Ass Pumpkins

I firmly believe in the power of a full moon. So much that that this will be the 10th time I mention them on my site, though, this may be the first not to feature fisticuffs.

Not even a donnybrook or good ole fashioned melee. No, the tumultuous behavior of our full-moon Halloween was not external. On that Saturday, the tides were very much felt internally.

SE7EN

They say breaking up is hard to do. Throwing up, not so much. The most obvious ‘deadly sin’ of going to a bar is throwing up. If you want to ‘puke and rally,’ do it at a house party where people are far less judgmental. I can think of no greater upheaval than the one you feel in the pit of your stomach and throat when modern nature’s most prevalent expectorant — tequila — comes spewing out in undulating waves while your head is below parallel of a dirty toilet seat peeing peers are too afraid to sit on.

We had seven such visitors on Halloween. Here are their stories.

Lust

It’s not always the women, but this list will skew 72% to the fairer sex. She twirled in her tutu, though I believe her costume represented the balloons from Up. Her partner was dressed as Russell. But these two were a lot friendlier than the Wilderness Explorer and the household dirigibles than I remember. He wanted to explore her… inflatables, if you will. She wanted to earn eagle scout level merit badges in slamming shots. She won?

Pride

Change of pace, this is my pride. When one woman locked herself in the stall and passed out, Queen Meme tried her best to wriggle the opposite side of the door handle, but the effort was all for nought. Another patron started laying on the ground (which almost made me the 8th deadly puker) but I stopped that for everyone’s health and safety. I scanned the door situation and reached over the stall door. It took some tip-toe action, but I unlocked the door to the bathroom stall. What a strange, creepy power I have now unlocked. But a power.

Greed

Boys and their greedy ways. This button-sized human looked like if Steve from Blues Clues only wore white undershirts but wasn’t Italian enough to pull them off. I’m not entirely sure he had the stomach capacity for a fun size Milky Way, let alone a 24oz beer, but that’s what was coming out in the lone Men’s bathroom stall. I think he wanted to be like all the other guys, palling around telling stories, chatting up girls. Near the end of the night, however, a good Listerine bath was all the action his mouth deserved.

Sloth

This one’s on the men. Make it to the bathroom stall. It’s a much easier cleanup than throwing up next to the trash can. Com’n, man. Stop making up look bad. Most of the women made it to the toilet bowl.

Envy

Unless, of course, you just do it at the table. Sorry, ladies, you’re back on the board. This was one of the earlier vomiters in the night, and you could tell her friends were none too happy to shut down All Hallows Eve before 10 p.m. The forlorn gaze they gave me and the line heading to the Uber was an unheeded omen, chilling , yet apt for the spirit of a full moon Halloween.

Gluttony

Like Greed above, there’s only so much you can ingest. Whether it was the beer or the shots, this poor girl couldn’t contain herself. Remember folks, it’s important to eat a good meal before you drink. If you’re munching on snacks in between empty cups, the Jackson Pollock fan club are the only people you’re going to impress.

Wrath

Our next contestant for the worst person in the bar was keeping her Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy boyfriends* outside the bathroom waiting for half an hour. As Queen Meme and I were waiting for her to finish — she was conscious at least — three more women ran into the bathroom, questioning not why there was a man in the bathroom, but who was the man in the bathroom. I reminded the group of two “sexy” (white) cops and swashbuckling pirate (or evil alternate reality St. Pauli girl) that I was the one who let all of them in, and I was more uncomfortable than they were that I had to be in the Women’s room to assist the fifth puker of the night back out to her couples-costumed-clad chaperones.

The door was thankfully unlocked this time, so we could escort the woman out in a less creepy fashion. And boy, was she mad. Angry at me. Angry at the world. Angry at Queen Meme for trying to calm her down. She wasn’t calm, of course. She was just face down in a toilet bowl, mascara running down whatever costume she was trying to represent. I couldn’t tell if she was dressing as someone in the Spongebob realm. She looked more like the soon-to-be ex mistress of Dr. Robotnik from Sonic the Hedgehog.

She wanted to know why she was being kicked out. “You were just throwing up in the stall,” I said. “Prove it,” she said, and tried to walk back to the bar, defiantly stomping her costume boots toward the confused, and rather unwelcome arms of the Mermaid Man and his* Barnacle Boyfriend.

Unimagination Land

The costumes this year were trash. Most of the women were in little black dresses and glitter makeup or fishnets, volleyball shorts and bloody shirts. Michael Myers probably didn’t stalk Laurie Strode over some infatuation. He just hated women who didn’t put in as much effort as he did to look terrifying.

No Tiger King either! None. No one. The biggest binge of the year and nada on the costume front. Even that terrible Suicide Squad Jared Leto Joker inspired dozens of costumes celebrating their “love.”

Speaking of Jokers, we saw all but Cesar Romero’s iteration, which is arguably most camp and not meant for “serious” holidays like Halloween.

I spotted at least a dozen hockey jerseys and one Pence fly. To the man’s credit, he captured the dead-behind-the-eyes stare of Mike Pence, but the fly was massive, almost the size of his head. No subtlety. No creativity. Blah year. Also, two Scooby-Doo group costumes, but one of them came on Friday and Daphne got so drunk she had to leave and Velma didn’t have glasses. Their fifth member wasn’t even a character from the show.

“What, you couldn’t go as Mr. Jenkins in a scary mask,” asked Peanut.

Just Toying With Us

These four were trouble from the onset. Three girls in the aforementioned fishnets, bloody tees and booty shorts, and a male Jared Leto Joker companion. Yuck.

The three girls were trying to skip the line using such bold tactics as “she has great boobs, don’t you think,” and “we’re too hot to wait outside.” Oh, and,

“LOOK AT MY TONKA TRUCK ASS!”

Now THAT is a unit of measurement I have yet to hear. I am not that familiar with children’s industrial machinery, but she was definitely in that Tonka Truck range. Might be the first time I’ve been verbally accosted to look at something.

I ended up with her and her friend’s fakes.

Planes, Trains & Automobiles

There was one guy inside that claimed to “be my boy all night long,” for wearing a mask. Whipping boy, more like it. I must have told him three different times to keep the mask on when walking around. This is happening more often with each guest, but this guy seemed genuinely apologetic when the little face covering wasn’t on correctly.

Until the very end of the night when the rain was falling. Hard.

He was running back inside for cover. I told him he needed to cover his face. “Yeah, man, you know me. I’ve been your boy all night,” and then proceeded to still walk in the bar without wearing a mask, and with no effort to put one on.

So I put him back outside in the rain. Where masks were optional.

Some screaming ensued by him and his girlfriend. How could I do this, what’s my problem, yada-yada. Look, this boy has rules. And if you’re repeatedly not going to follow them, you belong to the rain now.

That’s when he started hitting me with the specifics.

“Well, at least I’m not bald, bro! You’re bald. Not just shaving, man. You’re bald as hell!”

Which, as… as many of you know. I’ve been bald this WHOLE time. But Johnny Asshatseed isn’t done there. After calling me -gasp- bald, he strokes his longer hair by the bus stop sign. Combing it, giving a light rain rinse to prove how real men had hair and I, not rubbing my head in the rain like a madman, was immature.

He got some hecklers with Sunshine, Queen Meme, and Kato. Now, with the rain, the stereo noise of the jukebox, and Johny Asshatseed already yelling, I couldn’t understand my de facto backing band’s end of the insult volley. All I heard was,

“Just keep running that train, bro,” regarding the possible sexual adventures of the two men and one woman smoking under an insurance agency’s awning. “Choo-Choo! Train bro. Not me, man. Not for me.”

The choo-choo got me, probably because I heard it before from an older woman two years ago. I wonder if it was her son?

But then he threw us for a loop. Running a train was their hobby. Not his.

“I fly private, bro! Yeah man, one hole’s enough for me, I fly private.”

Oh, full moon, you did not disappoint.