We gave NDG kids the healthiest Halloween ever

We gave out the items on the right, obviously.

Even as far back as April, I was dreading Halloween. You see, earlier this year, I decided to get in serious shape and drop 50 per cent of my body weight. I have mostly succeeded in this department and am happy to report that anorexia and bulimia really work if you give them a try. Just kidding. I love food. Never barf. You get weird teeth.

Truth is, I have become a very militant, very healthy person. So as my favourite pagan ritual of Halloween drew nearer, I started worrying about how I would be able to turn down that candy, chocolate and all the other legally addictive poisons that are suddenly everywhere for two weeks. Candy is my vice.

Last year, if you ever saw me tearing through a venue at full speed with fists full of anger and rage, I was probably also holding a twizzler. Candy got me through shit. So when I decided to cut junk food out my life, it occurred to me that I’d rather die from eating shards of glass than watch anyone enjoy Halloween. In my most shallow and depraved moment, I decided that if I couldn’t enjoy the benefits of this day, no one else should be able to either.

I started thinking about candy and chocolate and how fat I got eating that shit. And as the most extreme, self-righteous part of my personality briefly took over, I decided that the cruelest trick I could play on unsuspecting trick-or-treaters was to wean them off candy and help them to enjoy the sweet nectar of a really well-seasoned piece of broccoli.

I set up shop at my mom’s house in NDG, where I knew we’d get loads of chubby little kids. I had a master plan of handing out individually wrapped kits of celery, carrots and kale, but I quickly realized that this would be a logistical nightmare and I was just too fucking lazy to commit that seriously to this immature stunt. I decided the even crueler thing to do was ruin Halloween by giving out dental hygiene products like dental floss, high-quality toothbrushes and toothpaste. I was going to educate these stupid kids no matter the cost.

I didn’t think it seemed right to give any weapons of malice to anyone under the age of three. I didn’t even know three-year-olds could eat candy. I kept picturing some dumb toddler crying because I handed him an Oral B toothbrush instead of a Snickers bar. The last thing I wanted to do was piss off some shitty Monkland yuppie dad who wears those dumb sweaters with the bullshit elbow patches.

The chaos began at about 7 p.m. I was armed at the door with handfuls of dental care products and was ready for whatever was about to happen. The first kids were already high on sugar by the time they got to our house. Their excited expressions quickly faded into gloom as they saw the unfamiliar, un-candy-shaped toothbrushes fall into their bags. They frowned and looked up at me as if I was responsible for 9/11. I said, “Happy Halloween — good luck with your dental care,” and they awkwardly walked back to their parents and showed them their “take.” Everybody was confused. Everybody was caught off guard. Everything was going according to plan.

The next group of kids seemed pleasantly surprised by the trick I pulled and amazingly seemed totally okay with this modern form of savage education. The next few sets of kids just shook their heads and hoped that this wouldn’t become a common thing throughout their night. One family of trick-or-treaters was so perplexed by this heinous crime that they stood on our front lawn for a few minutes debating the merits of my masterful scheme with each other.

I was running low on dental floss when a large gang of male tweens made their way to our door. I already had a huge beef with oversized kids still trick-or-treating at age 15, so I was ready to give them a stern lecture either way. I dropped some toothpaste in each of their overflowing bags of filth, and they immediately began discussing it as they hopped off the porch. I wasn’t sure if I was getting through to these stupid morons, but one thing was certain: none of these morons said thank you.

My last handful of hygienic products went to a pair of girls dressed as some kind of dead person or whatever you are when you paint your eyes black. They did a quick double take and took out the items to show their parents. The dad flashed me a thumbs-up and hollered, “Great idea!” which led me to believe that a whole bunch of parents would probably think the same thing when their obese children emptied their pillowcases full of diabetes onto the dining room table later that evening.

Once the Grand Experiment was finally over, I headed to my friend’s house to help give out real Halloween candy to infants and other obnoxious shitheads. It was kind of nice to see the joy on all the kids’ faces instead of the tormented expressions of my victims. I felt bad for a few minutes, but then a bunch of 21-year-old non-costumed mutants showed up demanding candy, and I remembered how full of shit everyone is. If I saved a few kids from a quadruple bypass surgery, then it was all worth it.

Don’t call me a hero, because I’m not. I’m just a regular guy with incredible hair, changing the world one Kit Kat bar at a time. ■