KLAS STOLPE
PURE SOLE
Boooooooooooooo.
That is “boo” as in a word used to scare people.
Not the urban dictionary “boo” that refers to a boyfriend or girlfriend... My “Boo” is so special to me. And the reply is, hopefully, “And so is my Bae.”
Not the “Boo” that is uttered or shouted to show contempt, scorn, or disapproval... “Terrible call ref, boooo!”
Not even the “boo” used as an informal word, such as “you never said boo to me about having the philharmonic orchestra over for dinner – there’s wet reed, horse hair and cat gut all over the carpet.”
Or the “boo-boo” I suffered when my finger cramped typing this.
And I am not talking about the world’s cutest dog, a Pomeranian named Boo.
Nope, I was working on my scary boo yesterday morning.
Until I realized that I needed a costume that wouldn’t offend anybody.
That became a lot harder than I had realized.
The more I plotted and planned, the more the bagged candy treats reserved for little door-bell ringers were opened and consumed.
Roughly two bite-sized Baby Ruth bags later and a handful of jelly-something-or-others I was a sugary nervous wreck… and I still had no costume.
It is hard not offending someone in today’s climate, and I did consider a “climate change” inspired outfit. You know, a bit of glacial ice covering all the correct areas so as not to be verbally warned, or arrested, while knocking on people’s doors. But ice melts, especially in today’s warmer, um, climates?
I would have to go as something that doesn’t exist.
A traveling middle school athlete?
Wait, I need an Alaska Marine Highways ferry to do that.
A fair Pacific Salmon Treaty?
I have trouble balancing a check book, how could I allot an ADF&G Scientologist a river for the fair sharing of salmon stocks.
GOP climatologist?
I could roll rocks into Sitka Sound and declare that is causing rising sea levels.
A handshake?
I have heard they were in abundance at one time.
What to do?
I could try a historic costume.
Nope.
Marvel Comics type of guy?
Nope. Somewhere, someone would find fault or offense with my tights, I’m sure.
Thus, I will offend myself.
I decided to attack my Swedish heritage.
My costume of a pickled herring is sure to be a hit.
Due to my attempt at being authentic however, the stench is so wretched that I attract the stray town cats, who use my tights as a scratching post.
Plus the sugary confections consumed during costume construction do not sit well when eaten in the vicinity and aroma of my ancestors.
So now I feel ill.
Boo.
As in “bummer.”
Happy Halloween!
