We continue the week’s festivities in honor of Scott’s birthday with some wise counsel for Scott (and the rest of you). And that advice is to be thankful that things aren’t a lot worse.
For example, Scott, your back may be shot to hell and your skeleton may be trying to escape out of your body (like in an old horror movie I think I saw once), but just be grateful that you don’t have Jonah Goldberg’s body. Or his mind either.
And while advancing middle-age may bring regrets for the mistakes of youth or for roads not taken, you can be very grateful that you never got involved with current Town Hall columnist Rachel Marsden (or if you did, somehow you managed to avoid being stalked by her, or having her sell your dirty clothes on eBay).
And while you may have current challenges, be very, very grateful that you aren’t seeing Robin of Berkeley to help you deal with them. Because she’s crazy!
Anyway, in honor of the Halloween season, Robin is sharing with us a wrenching tale of horror that would make Stephen King cry in terror like a little girl.
Spooky in Berkeley
It was Saturday, and the day started out propitiously–with a gaggle of adorable children masquerading as witches and ballerinas. But as the day went on, I noticed a new trend: older children and teens, stuffed into minivans.
They didn’t wear costumes, and they brought with them an angry vibe that was likely fueled by envy.
To get into the proper spooky state of mind, let’s clearly visualize this hellish scenario. It was daylight. Non-threatening tots costumed as ballerinas and non-evil witches are out and about. But then it got to be afternoon, and Robin noticed tweens and teens driving around in minivans. They weren’t in costume. Their vibe felt angry. Maybe they were jealous of Robin. Okay, that’s the scene. Now for the horror!
Now I’m quick to add that my house is modest at best; my neighborhood is diverse and middle-class. As with all areas around here, there are break-ins and damaged cars. But at least tricker-treaters can walk around our block without being struck by a drive-by shooting, which is more than I can say for these kids’ neighborhoods.
After a while, it all felt too intimidating. Fearing for my personal safety, I had to shut the door and turn off the porch light. But I didn’t just shut the door on that Halloween, but the ones that followed, too.
Um, on her first Halloween in Berkeley, Robin felt an envious vibe from some kids, and so she shut the door and locked herself in the house. And she has every Halloween since! And nothing has actually happened to her, but those vibes can be deadly! That’s a tale to rival the worst that Hollywood can offer this season!
It’s tragic that liberalism robs children and adults of the innocence of Halloween.
Okay, that’s actually the scary part of the story: Robin gets scared because vans of lower-class (possibly minority) young people are in her neighborhood on Halloween, and then she blames liberalism for her fears. And she presumably has clients whom are paying her to help them with their mental problems! Scary as hell!
How sad that some kids can’t safely ring the doorbells in their very own neighborhood. And those same children have to feel the sting of shame by being bused to better areas for a few sweets.
Speaking as a former kid, I don’t find it sad at all that some “less affluent” children trick-or-treat in the “better” enclave where Robin lives. I know that at a kid, every year I would trick-or-treat in my own neighborhood, and then would hit the richer neighborhoods too — because not only did I get more candy that way, I got BETTER candy too. (My neighbors gave out that “Cheap Bag o’ Treats” stuff that was mostly thin suckers and icky bubblegum, but some houses in better neighborhoods were passing out mini chocolate bars!) And not once did I feel an ounce of shame. And not once did I plan to rob or murder the people in those nicer houses, no matter how crazy they seemed.
But I learned my lesson from that one Berkeley Halloween, and it’s this: there is no respite from the wreckage that progressivism has wrought. The only solution is escaping its iron grip.
By locking your door against the lower-class kids who are out begging for candy in better neighborhoods, while planning race riots or Helter Skelter.
That’s why this Halloween, my husband and I will do what we always do: get up early, secure the windows and doors, and hide the plants in the backyard. And then we’ll beat a hasty retreat to the suburbs.
Good for you, Robin. I hope you aren’t killed by an envious/shameful 12-year-old on Halloween morn before you can escape to Palo Alto.
It’s probably a good thing I don’t live in Berkeley, because I’d be tempted — perhaps beyond the limits of human endurance — to hire Robin’s therapeutic services, if only for the freakish hell of it.
ME: So I guess I just get a little depressed around the holidays…
ROBIN: Have you tried hiding your houseplants?
ME: What?
ROBIN: In the backyard? Or the garage? I suppose you could bury them, but they might grow and become visible again.
ME: Well — they’re decorative, so hiding them would kind of defeat the –
ROBIN: DON’T LET THE MINIVAN TEENS SEE YOUR PLANTS! They’re like vampires, they can’t cross your threshold unless you invite them in, or they catch a glimpse of your rhododendron! Well, that’s all the time we have this week…
ME: But it’s only been twenty min–
ROBIN: Sorry. I HAVE TO BEAT A HASTY RETREAT! Don’t forget to schedule your next appointment with the receptionist…
Left by scott on October 29th, 2010