Kerry Allen

Happy Halloween!

Actually, although I will don a costume any other day of the year and role play like a fanatical 10-year-old, I don’t much care for Halloween. Distaste for the whole concept of going door-to-door threatening strangers into supplying you with food and the hypocrisy of ridiculing costumed folk 364 days a year but it’s suddenly KEWL because you want to do it on October 31 have soured me on the holiday. However, since I played the part of a zombie for most of this week (4 a.m. Tuesday through midnight Thursday with a cumulative total of about 4 hours of sleep… yeah, definitely one of the shambling undead), I feel I’ve adequately participated in the festivities this year.

My sleep disruption was caused by a major schedule disruption involving travel to the far distant land of Orlando on October 28 to spend quality time with my boyfriend, Trent, while he did his thing at the UCF Arena.

Your boyfriend brought the cold with him.

So I could wear my Underworld pants without dying of heat stroke. He’s considerate like that, always very attentive to my comfort.

But as I was apparently some kind of puppy-kicking Hun in a past life and Karma is a vengeful bitch, it couldn’t be all happy-happy-joy-joy for the duration.

Joining us today to provide additional tangential commentary (in her signature color of vomit-inducing pink) is special guest correspondent Trish Perfect!

Huh? What? Iz still def.

Oh, I see how it’s going to be. Go veg out with KNUMB Easy Listening 104.5, grandma. I can handle this myself.

Well see, I have a predicament. Y’all have successfully assimilated me into the Cult of Trent…

Welcome to the dark side. Have a cookie. Told you you couldn’t resist the allure of the SLAVIC MAGNETISM. Your seduction was inevitable.

Mr. Perfect thinks he’s awesome with sauce, and it’s not because of his penetrating gaze and pretty mouth.

Are you suuuuuure?

Looking at that picture in the last post, there’s some room for doubt. Gawd, and most definitely not the Norse one I married. BUT if I’m too enthusiastic in my worship, Mr. Perfect will develop a complex, and you’ll break my face for slobbering all over your boyfriend.

Maybe a few teeth. Not your whole face. Shall we commence?

You start.

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Well, first of all, while our little gang of six (with the perfect 2:1 concert-going ratio of guys to dolls) waited outside in the crisp evening breeze, Mr. Perfect, who is a minor celebrity of sorts, was recognized by some of the surrounding younguns.

Excuse me. MINOR celebrity?

Well, it’s not like he’s Steve Blum or anything. When it became obvious Mr. Perfect was more interested in engaging in PDA with the bimbo he was with…

What’s PDA?

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Public displays of affection. And you, obviously, were the bimbo in question.

I certainly hope so. Hey, don’t knock it. When you have two kids, you have to take it where you can get it. And we weren’t taking it or getting it as far as some of the jailbait was.

Well, sooner or later they have learn guys don’t value girls who put out for an audience. No time like the present.

That has to be LEARNED?

In light of some of the behavior witnessed Tuesday night, is there any doubt the answer is “yes”?

Is it too early to educate Princess Perfect?

Um, I wouldn’t go so far as “don’t give blowjobs in the parking lot” when advising your five-year-old, but it’s never too early to introduce the general concept of setting personal boundaries. Anyhoo, Mr. Perfect being otherwise engaged, the children glommed onto the old lady (moi) who understood their lofty standards of music, cinema, video games, and snack foods and stuck with her the rest of the night.

I think they were glomming onto your Underworld pants. Forget about a Miracle Bra. Those are Miracle Pants. Not that you’re a fat cow or anything…

Will the lies never cease?

… but those pants made you look half your size. Had I not had my hands full with Mr. Perfect, I would have glommed onto you myself.

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And if their power to alter sexual orientation isn’t enough to convince you of teh awesome, if somebody pukes on them, you just hose ‘em off. [Again, I could use the puking smiley.] Could there BE better pants? I think not. But I made it clear to the children from the start that my heart belongs to my boyfriend.

We had a good fifty people referring to Trent as “Kerry’s Boyfriend” before the night was through.

All according to my master plan. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the current Presidential campaign, it’s that the truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how many people are willing to go along with your bullshit. If those fifty people tell another fifty people and so on…

And it makes it on Fox News…

It will be reality by the end of the week.

I can’t believe you went there.

Oh, I went there. After that crap they were pulling at early voting?

Please don’t.

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The same frickin’ people in that HUGE line every day to make it look like there’s a four-hour wait so people will give up and go home? You better believe I went there, and I went to the Supervisor of Elections, and I went to the local news. See how they like it when the Voter Fraud Spotlight swings over in their direction. Slimy bastards.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I sense some lingering animosity.

I’m a seething mass of animosity, and I presume we’ll get into that eventually. At any rate, my boyfriend…

Hey, if you can alchemize bullshit into reality, shouldn’t you have planted the seed of “Kerry’s a billionaire” or something?

Money can’t buy me love, although… it COULD buy a dart gun, a number of sedative rounds, and a Sleep Number bed equipped with wrist and ankle restraints. Hmm. More thought required.

The fabled restraining order isn’t a joke is it?

I am not in violation!

Down, girl. I was surprised by the widespread willingness to play along, with the exception of a few sullen teenage girls with horrible makeup.

Seriously. Line of demarcation much? If you’re going to use a foundation forty shades from your actual skin color, in the name of all that’s holy, B-L-E-N-D! Three pounds of eye makekup? Fine. Enough metal piercing your face to unbalance your gait? Cool. Hair that’ll poke somebody’s eye out? You have my total support. But no matter how desperate you are for attention, no one should ever, under any circumstances, notice your foundation application.

I sense a plug coming on.

Nah. Much as I love me some Bare Minerals, I can’t afford it myself anymore. But there have been amazing technological breakthroughs even in drugstore crap, so there’s no excuse for the smeary orange mask look.

Forget the orange. Did you notice pseudo-Goth behind us?

Twenty hours a week in the tanning bed, then painted herself white (to the jawline) for the purpose of…??? Yeah, I noticed. I thought maybe she was a mime, except she would not shut up.

I’m not going to complain about the noise because aside from being kickass noise, it drowned out mimegirl’s bitching. But the lights. Come on. I’m surprised there weren’t mass seizures. You have to admit that was too much. 

Ahem. It IS the LIGHTS in the Sky tour.

Should be the LIGHTS in your EYES tour.

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Okay, I admit I’m never impressed with concert trappings. Look, if rabid android squirrels got into your lighting and ate all the wires and you had to go on without the light show and the crowd would still go INSANE because they’re not there to see the frickin’ lights, you don’t need them. But I would imagine when several thousand people pay money to see you, there’s some pressure to PUT ON A SHOW, and given a choice between overenthusiastic lighting and Trent engaging in Mansonesque performance art, I’ll take the lights, plzthxkbai. But really, the music is all you need, boyfriend.

Something surprised me even more than the grassroots Kerry+Trent movement, and that was that it was not Angst Fest 2008 in there.

We’re there to have a good time. Disenfranchised youth (and old folks who used to be disenfranchised youth) drop the angst at the door. When you have baseline angst, shaking your booty and screaming your head off…

I could not believe you were singing.

Only because nobody could hear me.

Enough to impress your new fan club that you knew all the words.

Dude, I love words. I play with them every day. I study their rhythm and nuances of meaning. My boyfriend’s are particularly precious to me. I’ve been plugged into NIN since before those kids were BORN. OF COURSE I know all the words.

Holy crap we’re old.

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No, we are Experienced Women barely into our Prime, you with your former professional cheerleader hotness still intact and I with my Underworld Pants of Miracles. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, angst + shaken booty + decapitation by screaming = blissed out. The NIN live experience is a cupcake-scented rainbow bubble of peace and harmony and happiness.

Must be the braingasm talking because horny 17-year-old boys for damn sure do not smell like cupcakes.

Okay, sweaty cupcakes. But I soaked up all that positive energy like a sponge. I was absolutely euphoric by the time it was over. I was dancing to the ringing in my ears on the way back to the car. And heeeeeeeeeere’s Karma!

Who should slither out of the darkness but… DUN-DUN-DUUUUUUUUN! Kerry’s baby daddy!

Okay, if you must refer to him in that sense, stick with D.A.D.S.—Deadbeat Absentee Donor of Sperm.

KerBer kind of deflates, sweaty cupcake rainbow bubble busted, and without even knowing who this sleaze is, her posse rallies around her.

Forget the angry dudes. The angry dudes are there only to distract you from the pissed off former cheerleader who will do things to you with a pompom from which you will never recover, physically or psychologically.

But even that is only a temporary diversion because that is all it needs to be because Ker is the Queen of Cool.

Har. Ker deserves an Oscar for that performance.

D.A.D.S. says, “Kelly! DAMN, you look good!” (Yes, he called her Kelly.)

He only knew me for six years.  You can’t expect a name to stick after such a brief acquaintance.

And she responds without so much as a pause, “Thanks! You look like shit. Spend some time in prison lately?”

Not as statistically improbable a possibility as with the general population. I exhibited questionable taste in companions before appointing Trent to the office of my boyfriend.

And he’s wearing a brand spankin’ new concert T-shirt, and she says, “Nice shirt. It’ll do to replace the one you stole from me back in the day. Hand it over.”

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And he’s all, like, “Nuh-uh!”

Until he notices the posse has swelled in size and decides it’s in his best interest to do whatever she wants before things turn ugly.

Keep in mind, it’s now 40-something degrees, and he’s shirtless.

Hypothermia is too good for him. The douchebag didn’t even ASK about Angelic Daughter.

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He had probably conveniently forgoten about her existence. And that is why antagonizing him was stupid. He is a spiteful douchebag, and in the process of dwelling on what a castrating bitch I am and contemplating various forms of vengeance, he just might remember something like that, which is why I still haven’t been sleeping.

Told you, don’t sweat it. I have a shovel.

And I’m torn about what to do with the shirt. On the one hand, it’s NIN. On the other, it has touched the D.A.D.S.’s skeevy flesh, and I don’t know if Tide can adequately remove that funk.

Give it to one of your gaming buddies who couldn’t go. I’ll buy you something untainted.

If you can find a black zip-front hoodie in a grownup size, that would provide me with much solace.

No such luck at the NIN store, as I’m sure you were aware. Any objection to homemade with love?

Homemade with love is fine with me, I’m all for cutting out the middle man, but send Boyfriend a check to compensate him for logo infringement. He has to support me in the lavish fashion to which I’ve become accustomed, after all, and hijacking the merchandise train impedes his livelihood.

You’re living on ramen and Carnation Instant Breakfast, and you want me to cut Trent Reznor a friggin’ check for painting “NIN” on a sweatshirt?

Yeah. It sort of falls into the realm of theft of intellectual property, and I don’t support thefting from my boyfriend. I’m protective like that. It’s the least I can do for the Underworld-pants-survivable weather with which he gifted me.

And I happen to LIKE ramen and CIB.

You’re insane.

You’re just now arriving at this conclusion? I’da thunk Tuesday night would have established that fact beyond the shadow of a doubt…