Perhaps you will go as a tequila bottle, a salt shaker, Heinz ketchup, box wine, T-bone steak, sexy corn, bacon and eggs, a side of beef or Count Chocula (not that you can eat Count Chocula, the mascot, at least not until his overly formal Transylvanian man-servant schtick drives you to cannibalism).
And while I’m thinking of it, can we now express our sincerest thanks to Burger King for retiring its mascot earlier this year? We might actually be able to enjoy a Halloween party without being stalked by a plasticized Henry the VIII reimagined as a pimp.
Personally, I would never be caught dead in a food-related Halloween costume. It reminds me too much of those restaurant animal mascots that suggest you eat them. You know, like the Red Hot & Blue pigs, with their ZZ Toplike pose, offering up a little 12-bar blues tune before offering themselves to the smoker for your lunch.
Perhaps I’m overanalyzing this — all together now: ya think? — but the subtext of food-related costumes (at least the adult ones, not the ones designed for, say, canines) is sex. More than any sexy pirate or sexy SWAT team member (both of which suggest really bad endings), food costumes scream, I’m good enough to eat! All those guys in walking banana costumes aren’t exactly demonstrating for better labor conditions.
On Halloween, I have no interest in being seeded, destemmed, diced, pureed, tossed, chopped, spread, creamed, braised, smoked, Cryovaced, steamed, stir-fried, breaded or prepared by any other culinary method with vaguely sexual undertones. And even if I did, I wouldn’t advertise it to a hostile world with a 9 percent unemployment rate.
Tell you what, the first person this Halloween that looks at me with a vaguely voracious expression, I’m not going to call the cops. I’m calling the King. He’ll set you straight. He’s unemployed, too.
So now, complete this sentence: If I were to dress as a foodstuff for Halloween, I would go as ________. Now tell us why in the comments section below.