i only wear white when it rains

because blogging is cheaper than therapy

whorlaween whorrors

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There are certain truths in life.

The yellow gum-ball should not exist.

Not a single “friend” on Facebook gives a shit that you’re making banana bread.

And Halloween parties were invented by men who want to mark an annual occasion for all women to dress like strippers.

Trying to avoid showing cleavage, leg and ass fat during Halloween is like trying to avoid the question, “You work today?” during a pedicure.

Not even overweight women get a free pass, as each costume site is brimming with “plus sized” get-ups that are nothing more than larger versions of the same slutty attire about .09 percent of our population should actually consider wearing.

Your husband just ordered Stripper Shortcake standing next to you in the Strawberry thigh highs.

Sure you can dress up like a traffic light or ATM machine, but you will be shocked at how quickly you’ll regret not taking the opportunity to sport thigh-high lace stockings without consequence or judgement. Not to mention you will feel invisible for failing to wear the requisite fishnets and not reading the Whorlaween Rulebook which clearly states: “dominatrix, stripper or some version thereof are the only acceptable costume choices for any woman over the age of 18.”

It may have taken me 30-cough years, but I’ve grown to accept the fact that during the Whorlaween season, there is a better than average chance a perfect stranger will see more of my cervix when I bend over than my Ob-Gyn. I’ve also learned that if somebody tells me my costume is clever, it’s the equivalent of saying my baby is big. It’s just code for ugly.

So the question has become less what costume am I wearing, and more: what cheesetacular porn star will I be this year? Or for Saturday’s Annual BrewHaHa Event: which BrewHaHottie will I attempt to pull off?

Well…as part of the Navy Seal Team Six Unit that turned Bin Laden into chum, “Commando Kim” will be storming the Farley Estate tomorrow night equipped with a plastic bullet belt and about 15 more pounds than anyone should have sporting this ensemble. I just hope no one mistakes me for a real military officer as my camouflage corset, leather garter belt and black tutu look strikingly similar to what any member of our armed forces would be wearing during top-secret missions to kill Al-Qaeda operatives.

Guess the tutu is supposed to be as short as your bangs

When my costume arrived from spicylingerie.com yesterday (along with a complimentary pair of crotchless panties that scared me more than a little), I was excited to try it on forgetting that when the weather dips below 75 degrees, I start inhaling Starbucks hot chocolates like they’re oxygen. This is unfortunate. As my tutu was shorter than my thumbnail, and there was seemingly no way to camouflage my inner thigh bulge despite Sara Blakely’s empty promises.

Knowing it was too late to get a new costume or swear off solid food, I this morning embarked on Commando Kim’s first mission: to locate the kind of tights Hooters waitresses wear. I didn’t know where to find them, but was confident they were strong enough to hold back a crash test dummy during a 110 mph collision.

My options at 9 am were fairly limited until I passed by the XXX store “Naughty by Night” across from the Tyrone mall. The neon “OPEN” sign seemed to beckon every pervert, pedophile and last-minute, desperate Halloween party guest in Pinellas County.

Normally I’d be nervous about doing so much as a u-turn in the parking lot of a place like this, but Halloween is really designed (by men) to bring out the whore in all of us. Thankful I hadn’t yet put the Shorecrest Preparatory School sticker on my new car, I entered the store wondering what sort of communicable diseases I could get from just breathing the patchouli scented incense burning inside. Trying not to guess what the smudges were on the glass door as I entered, I was met by a worker with a terrifying set of iridescent blue contact lenses straight out of Avatar. She greeted me with a certain hesitation, like I was an FBI agent on a sting. She asked me what I was looking for, and it felt less like an offer to help than part of an uncomfortable hazing process that led me to believe I was pledging the wrong sorority. I can only imagine this is because I was still carrying the GermX wipe I used to open the door. A possible indicator that I was not a frequent shopper.

Does this come with an instruction manual?

I blurted out what I was in search of like it was an apology. A confession of sorts. Luckily the Naughty by Night Na’vi seemed relieved I wasn’t undercover and walked me over to the pantyhose that she reminisced about once wearing during her stint as a Winghouse girl. Judging from the whimsical glow in her xenon headlight eyes, I think she may have wanted to chat with me about the good ole’ days of spilling pitchers of beer on intoxicated men as they played Golden Tee. But I really only needed to know one thing: will these tights hold in my thigh dough enough that I won’t be forced to wear a Burka to this party instead? She winked at me. Which either meant “yes” or “I can perform cunnilingus on you in the dressing room right now.” I’m not sure which, but I grabbed two pairs of my Winghouse tights and made my way up to the register.

It wasn’t until I waited for her to process my credit card that I allowed myself to look around.

I had never felt so Amish and confused in my entire life.

As I spotted whorrifying contraptions that resembled glass, phallic lava lamps, what I can only imagine were vibrators large enough to clog the Holland tunnel and leather paddles wider than my paddleboard itself, I couldn’t help but wonder… what is that for? Where does this go? Who? Why? I want my mommy.

So if you want a real scare this Whorlaween season, I suggest you skip the haunted houses and supernatural horror flicks and just visit your local adult novelty store where the Winnebago-sized rubber penises are sure to give you nightmares for years to come. In the meantime, I’ll be skipping my next three meals in the hopes that I can be more BrewHaHottie tomorrow night than BrewHaHeifer.

Clever. And your baby is ugly too.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

October 22, 2011 at 12:02 am

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