This four-part piece was written off-site in 2017
***PHANTOM OFFENSES (parts 1 & 2) is commentary
***EATING CROW (parts 3 & 4) is a dual-POV story

This is a repromotion of last Halloween's post

Phantom Offenses


No Offense

Trouble is brewing at Ipswich Ale.

The company has been profusely apologizing for the past week on behalf of employee Brian Watts, whom they lost no time tossing under the Brewery bus.

Sentence: unpaid suspension of indeterminate duration, with parole contingent upon proof of repentance.

Watts did not get a fair trial. Watts did not get a trial. His offense was so outrageous that the Kangaroo Court of P.C. County thought it a slam dunk. After all, there were hundreds of horrified witnesses.

Watts’s crime? Appearing at a “Night of the Living-Dead Rock Star” theme party as the late rapper Biggie Smalls, Watts’s childhood idol.

For accuracy — for any hope of recognition — Watts wore brown makeup.

That’s it, folks. As for those hundreds of horrified witnesses? There were hundreds of others who were not so horrified. Indeed, the applause meter registered loud enough to garner Watts the hundred-dollar second prize.

Stampeding hordes of humorless offend-ees drowned the clamor of happy clappers.

Cries of “racial stereotyping” and “outrageous insensitivity” crescendoed, reaching a climax with demands for Watts’s head on the company chopping block.

Ipswich Ale and its prosecutors struck a plea bargain. Watts was sentenced to indefinite leave sans salary, to be followed by mandatory “cultural diversity training” — not just for Watts, but for all employees.

For his part, Watts humbly apologized for having unwittingly given offense:

“It simply never occurred to me that this was going to be so harmful to so many. I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I also can’t undo the harm this has caused my employer… has been subjected to threats.”

Watts said he would donate his prize money to the American Civil Liberties Union. “I don’t want to profit from the pain and confusion I have caused.”

Mr. Watts, you have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t “harm” anybody or cause them “pain.”

Enjoy your hundred bucks — you deserve it, and more, for all the grief you’ve been subjected to by the self-righteous, self-appointed P.C. Police and by the yellow jelly-bellied, damage-control contingent at Ipswich Ale.

Brian, for your own sake — next time, play it safe as a vanilla Elvis.

* * * * * *
 

No Offense Taken

Whatever has possessed Halloween?

Fright-for-fun engendered by its usual ghosts and spooks pales in comparison to a fear-for-real of a most dreadful specter. This phantom is conjured by the powers of political correctness, which haunt us with their eerie wail: your costume is off-ennnn-sive!

How I long for the glory days of 2008 when Sarah Palin was America’s sweetheart-slash-nightmare pending. There were so many delightful takes on her that Halloween.

One woman came riding in a reindeer-ed sleigh. One came flailing in a big baked Alaska, meringue spewing on spectators. I came simply: hair up, glasses on, smiling and waving, with “John McCain” in tow.

I carried a handbag to which I’d attached a pair of tidbits spawned by Internet imps.

One — spoofing McCain’s advanced age — read: McCain ’08; Palin ’09.

The other — spoofing McCain’s being sidelined by his glamour girl — read: Visit us at Sarah-Palin-and-what’s-his-name.com.

Palin fans squealed in delight at my appearance; the ladies jostled one another for the place of honor next to Sarah.

What’s-his-name was rudely shoved out of frame whilst the surfeit of selfies was spawned.

Palin detractors were equally delighted, snapping their share of Sarah shots; some nonfans deigned to include What’s-his-name.

Those were the days: non-partisan politics, neither “correct” nor “incorrect.” Just fun.
 

***********************************
 

The Dirt Devil

As I made my grand entrance into the American Legion last Friday night, I was deluged with delighted squeals.

A dozen-plus patrons approached to appreciate the demonic details of my costume.

I was a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner, complete with crevice tools for horns and the plug end of the cord as my tail.

Accoutrements included a pair of genuine triangular Dirt Devil floor sweepers, which were strapped to my boots; a red canister torso; a stuffed paper bag on my back; a tool belt with attachments; a hose with a large crevice tool “sword”; and a cord wound on hooks between my left elbow and shoulder.

Let me not forget my partner-in-suction: a mini Dirt Devil, which I alternately pushed for business and cuddled — canister to canister — for pleasure.

“First place: you got it!” I was assured repeatedly.

“Not a doubt: no one even comes close — they’re all predictable, off-the-shelf-ies.”

I demurred, murmuring with affected modesty, “Winning doesn’t matter — I’m just here to have fun.”

Truth to tell, winning did matter. I wanted to win, not for myself (well, not so much), but on behalf of Chuck and Scott.

Chuck had spent hours doing the construction. Armed with elastic, electrical tape, and Velcro, he’d engineered my boot straps and tool belt. He’d sprayed my attachments and tail devil-red to match my torso. He’d drilled strategic holes through metal and plastic parts.

Scott, owner of a vacuum repair shop, had suggested the Dirt Devil theme two Halloweens prior. He’d provided the components and many clever ideas, such as the floor sweepers and the “mini-me” dance partner.

At last, nine o’clock — the “witching” hour — was upon us.

All who were in costume circled the dance floor and promenaded their alter-egos to the tunes of “Monster Mash” and “Ghost Busters.”

(Drum roll)… And the winner is… the scarecrow!

There were three judges: the DJ, a regular patron, and a woman I didn’t recognize.

Both of the men approached me afterwards to say they’d voted for me.

The DJ told me the lady had nixed it.

Why? Because “they” looked fake.

“They” being the tits I forgot to mention.

Fake! Scott had assured me they were genuine Dirt Devil steel spiral rotors. Chuck had drilled each in three places, so that we could string the two together and tie them over my neck and behind my back.

You can probably picture their perky red washer garnishes, each bolted firmly in place.

Epilogue

The following night we attended another costume party.

A very small party, as it turned out. Four costumes, three prizes.

Third place went to the policewoman.

Second place went to the cat-woman.

(Drum roll)… And the winner is… The scarecrow!

Touché, hay-head!

* * * * * *
 

The scarecrow

(Drum roll)… And the winner is… the scarecrow!

I was mortified when they named me the winner.

Everybody — myself included — thought the Dirt Devil would win. Everybody thought the Dirt Devil should win.

My costume was cute, but it was neither original nor outstanding. I wore a floppy hat, plaid flannel pants, a tunic belted with twine, and straw fringes around my neck and ankles. My face was smeared with brown paint.

That’s all, folks.

The crowd was underwhelmed. They were ogling the Dirt Devil all night, loudly proclaiming her the hands-down winner. You couldn’t help but see and hear them go on about it.

So how the heck did I “win?”

I got my answer soon enough. I overheard two of the judges griping about having reluctantly deferred to the odd one out.

The woman was adamantly opposed to the Dirt Devil for the ridiculous reason that her tits looked “fake.”

I’d have gladly forfeited my ten-dollar prize — and my virtual crown—to the crowd favorite. But that would have embarrassed her and compounded my humiliation. Best to leave bad enough alone, I figured.

I slunk out of the place as the murmurs began their crescendo: The Dirt Devil should have won!