Word Slinger

Is the minute the 22-year-old girl dressed as a GI Jane stripper sans underwear asks what you’re supposed to be. A 1940s pin-up girl actually. Classy. As opposed to your “top” and bare midrift. I’m pretty sure if you were army crawling through the jungle, your shit would be wrecked. I thought costumes were supposed to be legit? Now I know that using the term midrift alone ages me. And I know Halloween is an open invitation to dress like even more of a tramp than the bar-hopping norm. I can’t do it anymore though. I love to dance, imbibe and make a jackass out of myself just as much as the next person, but I had a fucking headache the next day that could’ve rivaled a brain tumor. I didn’t even drink all that much and the drinks weren’t even that tasty. Tasty enough to justify my horrendous dome pain. This just isn’t my cup of tea anymore. Although I’m damn glad I was present to see Jon “stomp the yard” and engage in a mean round of air double dutch on the dance floor, splitting his rented trousers from crotch to shin. I laughed my ass off. Until he showed me his balls.