More bad things to give trick-or-treaters

Due to popular demand, I Stole Your Lunch's annual guide to Halloween is back 364 days early! Internet celebrities like Scott Colby can set their own schedules.

So here are more things you should not, under any circumstances, give to anyone who knocks on your door Halloween night:

• Suppositories.
• A swift kick in the ass.
• Your garage door opener and a schedule of times you will not be home.
  
• Grandma's walker.
• Sparkle toothpaste.
• A bulleted list.
• The Little Scientist's First Meth Lab Kit.
• A photoshopped image of the trick-or-treater's mom cavorting half naked through the living room while Benny the mail man sits and watches from the recliner with a smarmy smile on his face and a cigar in his hand.
• Samples of bodily fluids.
• Ibuproferen.
• A three-pack of sponges.
• Fitness Made Simple featuring John Basedow.
• A free paternity test courtesy of the Maury Povich show.
• USB nose hair clippers (firewire is better).
• Tickets to Neverland Ranch.
• An Apple Lisa.
• One crouton.
• Shards of your shattered hopes and dreams.

There. It's done. And hopefully it will not happen again until next year. Or at least November, when the list of bad things to put in the Thanksgiving stuffing is born.

Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat

Giving out candy is a good thing. Unfortunately for the human race, there's always that one individual on the block who insists on handing out something different. That's right, Scott Colby is talking to you. Loser.

So if you do feel the need to be different, if you can't bring yourself to follow the crowd and hand out Kit Kats and Dum Dums like the rest of the world, here's a list of other very viable Halloween options.

• Nips - Mainly because forties won't fit inside a plastic pumpkin.
• Draft of a prenuptual agreement - Real friends protect each other from golddiggers (thanks Kanye).
• Ring dings.
• Cufflinks - Give your neighborhood the gift of bling.
• 3 x5 wallet shots of Scott Colby's toaster.
• Coupon for a free Happy Ending (at Friendly's you perv).
• Individually wrapped donuts.
• Wampum points.
• Anything your roommate owns that was purchased at Banana Republic.
• T tokens.
• Official "I Stole Your Lunch" apparel.
  
• Viagra- To raise the dead.
  

If you thought that list sucked, just wait - there's more! Without any further ado, here is Scott Colby's list of bad things to give trick-or-treaters.

• Matches.
• A subpoena.
• Your dog.
• Ammunition.
• Autographed photos of Brigitte Nielsen.
• Tickets to a cruise with the Minnesota Vikings.
• Your social security number.
• Pot holders.
• Kelly Clarkson's phone number (you don't want her, she makes way too much money for you).
• A shoe wedgie.
• Chicken soup.
• Your car keys.
• Land mines.
• The URL of this blog.

It's over. Go home.

Spreadin the good word

On his way to work this morning, Scott Colby was treated to an interesting performance by a rather unique individual. He's still not sure exactly what that performance was: the reading of a communist manifesto, an announced premonition of oncoming doom, a manic recital of abstract poetry, or some new kind of infomercial. Perhaps it was none of the above. Perhaps it was all of the above, with a little Jim Beam mixed in for good measure.

Regardless of what it was, I Stole Your Lunch is going to dissect it in an effort to help those poor souls subjected to it find some reason to continue living.

Short and stocky, yet otherwise relatively nondescript, the young man boarded the D Line at the Fenway stop. He immediately addressed his eager crowd, his showmanship readily apparent from his first bellow. "Does anyone have a dollar?" One hundred pairs of eyes rolled in perfect synchrony. Here was just another bum hunting for a bit of spare change when he should've been hunting for a job at Wal Mart.

But then he announced he was looking for a handout, but a trade. "My seal for your seal, my code for your code." A brave woman did as he asked so he would shut the fuck up. But he wasn't dissuaded. "Break the code down by fours, then build it back up, and see how much you have to give."

Four, by the way, is an incredibly powerful number. It's the number of yachts in Kelly Clarkson's backyard. She is going to give Scott Colby all of them so he can be the admiral of his own fleet.

He proceeded to announce that "The women will turn the red back to pink." Pink, as anyone who's anyone will tell you (or as anyone who watches Oprah but isn't necessarily anyone at all will tell you), is the new black. Therefore, it is I Stole Your Lunch's expert opinion that this particular gentleman is a former Banana Republic employee disgruntled with their new fall line, which features a significant amount of lumber jack style flannel. He's obviously predicting that the ladies will not enjoy the lumberjack look, and thus all the whipped men out there will avoid the Banana Repo like it was the Foggy Goggle, thus forcing the once mighty fashion giant to bring in a new line of pink turtlenecks, which the speaker obviously preferred.

He disembarked at Hynes, leaving the stunned crowd begging for more. After all, what audience could possibly be more receptive than a hundred or so men and women pressed much too tightly together that early in the morning.

Bleh, stop reading this crap and go do something useful with your life, like making a hefty donation to the Buy Scott Colby a Chateau Fund.

Stupid Red Sox

To no one's big surprise, they lost. Any of you blogonauts who don't follow the team are probably shaking your heads, your mullets flapping in the breeze, wondering what people like me have to complain about. After all, they won the whole shebang last year, didn't they?

Yes, but this is Boston. Any season that doesn't end with a champagne bath and a Duck Boat parade is considered a failure. The feeling is a bit stronger for the Sox, but it's there for all the other local teams too. Hell, if Boston had its own Special Olympics team, and that team failed to take the most medals, there wouldn't be any hugs. There wouldn't be any "You did your best, so you're all winners." It would just be a bunch of jerks calling in talk radio to yell about how sone kid didn't give one hundred and ten percent or how the coach never should've put little Timmy in the backstroke when he's obviously better in the butterfly.

This is not a fun time of the year. The local media is going to spend the next three months dissecting this team's collapse. Was it Graffanino's error? Johnny's arm? Tito's refusal to sit guys who aren't contributing? The lobotomy Manny's parents must've gotten him for his eighth birthday?

None of the above. It was my stupid ass room mate.

See, he works for the Red Sox. He changes Johnny Pesky's diapers. He combs Johnny's hair 500 times every three hours to eliminate knots. He cuts the crust off Lucchino's sandwiches. He buys Jack Daniels for Millar. The chalk on Trot's hat? He's in charge of rubbing it in. His official job title is Bitch.

And he's a...

You know what, sit down first.

He's a Yankees fan.

That's right. Through my room mate, the Evil Empire has unfettered access to Fenway Park.

For now, Scott Colby is going to protect his identity. He enjoys the fact that "Raul" is paying one third of the rent. He can forgive the occasional discretion, especially since the Yankees don't stand a chance of getting past the Angels.

So "Raul" is now the Mata Hari of the Major Leagues. He introduced the ghost of Bill Buckner to Tony Graffanino. He replaced Millar's whiskey with sparkling cider. He spent an evening arm wrestling with Damon to weaken his already damaged shoulder. He kidnapped Matt Clement's hamster. He put Pesky in diapers that were two sizes too small.

"Raul" should be strung up from the flagpole by his toes. Or packed into a box with a bunch of dead skunks and shipped back to George Steinbrenner. Or locked in the Foggy Goggle for a week and a half.

Luckily, the Red Sox job isn't necessarily permanent. If you are an entrepreneur with an opening in your up and coming company (unfortunately, if you're reading this, you're probably not), please cowboy up and offer it to "Raul." Scott Colby will take you for a ride in Kelly Clarkson's yacht. He'll even make you waffles with the Best Toaster Ever.

Did I mention the toaster is black?

That makes it look dangerous, like it was wearing a leather jacket.

Hypothetical situation:

Let's say you sign a lease with a landlord. Let's say the landlord is going through a divorce. Let's say his wife, who lives in the building, produces the results of a civil case against her husband, which states that she has the right to collect rent from the tenants on the property you've lease from her husband. Who the fuck do you pay?

In typical scolbified fashion, I Stole Your Lunch has devised several solutions to your hypothetical problem, because without I Stole Your Lunch, you'd be set adrift upon a constantly shifting sea of doubt and uncertainty. It would be kind of like that feeling you would get were you to wake up next to a girl you brought home from the bar the night before, only to realize in the dim morning light that there's no way in hell she's 18, never mind 21. And her father's the local mafia boss.

Solution #1: Put both their names on the check. This way, they can fight over it themselves. Make sure the "for" line reads "To douche bags, for being douche bags."

Solution #2: Bury the check in a secret location. Draw two maps to said location. Give one to the husband, one to the wife. First one to find it gets the rent.

Solution #2A: Utilize Solution #2 on September 18, which happens to be International Talk Like a Pirate Day. The rent check can now legally be referred to as "booty," the prospective landlords as "scalawags," "scurvy scoundrels," or "douche bags of the sea." This way everyone can get in on the holiday spirit! Ship ahoy!

Solution #3: Stare at the sexy toaster.

Solution #4: Contact your local hax0r. Have him hack into the bank accounts of said douche bags to make it look like both had received rent checks from you. Pay him in Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and Xena: Warrior Princess pornographic fan fiction. Then kick him in the balls for calling himself a hax0r.

Solution #5: Ladder match in a steel cage. Yes, Scott Colby watched wrestling the other night. Yes, he's slightly embarrassed, but he also slightly doesn't give a crap what you think of his viewing habits. Hulk Hogan would approve.

Solution #6: Turn both douche bags in to the RIAA for sharing illegal copies of Kenny G's latest CD.

Solution #7: Scour the writings of the wise men and women on Blogger until you find something that looks like a good idea. Everyone knows that blogonauts are a font of legal advice.

Solution #8: Fake your own death. Dead people don't pay rent. This also provides the opportunity to strategically "haunt" said douche bags. A small investment in white face paint and a chain or two can go a long way. If you make a really, really good ghost, you may even cause said douche bags to once again embrace the Christmas spirit. But don't be surprised if the cable company still manages to track you down.

Solution #9: Go back to your home planet. That would be URANUS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Solution #10: Kill the rest of the twelve pack and write a dumb blog about it.

I Stole Your Lunch sincerely hopes one of these solutions works for you. Try them singularly, or, if you like to live dangerously, in various combinations. And no matter how bad it gets, just remember: some day, you may have tenants that you can screw over too. Hooray!