A bit more than a bump in the night

My Halloween was extremely tame. For the first time in memory, I didn’t don a costume. I didn’t see anyone with one, either, unless you count the halo headband California Sen. Barbara Boxer was fiddling with at an Environment and Public Works Committee hearing yesterday. (Idaho Sen. Larry Craig, who also sits on the committee, was dressed as a lecherous old man, but it’s debatable whether it was a costume.)

I returned home after work and supped in my room as the lump of flesh I live with sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, as he is wont to do. I was a bit nervous about the means I would have to use to remove him from his constant perch so I could enjoy the two hours of programming I allow myself each Wednesday—“Pushing Daises” and “Gossip Girl.”

To my delight, however, one of The Thing’s never-present friends must have tempted him into some inbibery. He got into the shower (an activity he now enjoys in the dark), made his usual gurgles, belches and snorts, and then vacated the premises just in time for my first show.

Wink joined me for the second, as is our habit, and brought me some delightful treats. We sipped a solitary glass of vino each and then she left for the Metro. That was, I thought, the extent of my holiday celebrations.

BUT I THOUGHT WRONG! (Insert witchy laugh here)

In the middle of the night, 3 a.m. specifically, my eyes snapped open. Groggily wondering why on God’s green earth my body would choose to rouse me at that specific time, I suddenly heard what I assumed to be a troupe of ghosties and ghouls tramping through my living room.

As my mind cleared, I realized that it was The Flatulent One, banging and stomping about, cursing and drunkenly slurring threats to our furniture at the top of his lungs. Now, from the safety of my office chair, it seems a bit silly that I didn’t go out and slap him upside the head for disturbing my slumber.

But, dear reader, you must understand that I have often entertained the terrifying thought that one day this oaf will barge into my room during a drunken escapade and defile me. There was no way I was about to confront an angry drunkard twice my body mass and invite an assault on my person. Plus, the lock on my double doors is rendered useless by the slightest wind, which causes the doors to fly open.

It just wasn’t the time to risk getting the wrong response to “Trick or treat?”