block party from hell

Sunday was our town's annual block party. This year's theme was "The Most Unintentionally Evil Block Party You'll Ever Attend." I walked up to town with the boys and their friend, and quickly they were enveloped by a thick fog of silly string and fart spray. I lost them in the confusion, so I was free to move about unencumbered by the constant droan of "MomcanIhaveadollar, momcanIhaveasoda, momcanIhave5dollarsfortheinflatableSimpsonshammer, momcanIthrowyourmoneyawayonimpossiblegamesof chance..."

I was hungry, and I was relieved to see that among the various sausages and hot dogs and other phallic meats offered, there was a stand where I could at least get something healthy from one of the four food groups:

How my heart ACHED for a fried oreo. And for the churros, water ice and cheese fries that belonged to the fried oreo. Not surpisingly, however, the line stretched around the block and I didn't want to wait. I moved on.

Nothing says "good eatin'" quite like the decaying barbequed carcass of a decapitated animal, its torso impaled from mouth to anus on a rotating rod, its juices dripping onto the street.


This effectively eliminated my appetite, so I walked on to the inflatable entrance of "Survivor Island." But I dared not go in, because, all similarities to the TV show aside, I was afraid of the screeching, crying dwarf natives hopping around frantically inside.

I started to panic as I noticed the crowd moving zombielike along the street, mindlessly eating their flesh sandwiches, dull-eyed and expressionless as they packed their plastic bags with cheap plastic promotional giveaways from dark entities like "the U.S. Marines" and "the Gloucester County Freeholders" and "Gutter Helmet."

I moved more quickly now, desperately hoping to see a friendly face in the crowd, when this man confronted me: He smiled at me--a cold, glinty smile--maniacally waving and twising his purple phallus so fast I couldn't follow the blur of his hands....into the shape of...a sword? A dachshund? A monkey? He proffered it to an ususpecting toddler, who quickly popped it. She sensed the evil.

By this time I was running, frightenend, helplessly pushing my way through the b.0.-drenched crowd and finally found a hole of sunlight on the street, where this baby corpse had been left to rot.


"BOYS!" I screamed. "Let's get outta here!" I found them, their eyes glazed over at the Rotary-sponsored game booth where, led by the merciless elders, they were trying to knock over cans with two limp beanbags in an unsuccessful attempt to win a plush Playboy rabbit head. Plush.

We escaped and ran down the street--clutching each other much like the Mod Squad during that scene in the alley during the opening credits—until we finally made it home, alive, still hungry and out only eight bucks. How much would YOU pay for an afternoon of…evil?