Say Halloween to most parents and you hear,

“I love Halloween, but how do I celebrate the most fun-riffic of fun holidays without turning my kids into candy-toting targets for the crack-addled crosshairs of pushers, prostitutes, and pederasts?”

Well, no need to worry. Parents, adults, and kids of all ages can spend a spooky, but safe, all hallow’s eve this year at a family-oriented haunted house. Our Lady of the Holy Redemptor, at 314 Brewster Square, presents its House of Horror this October 27-31. Our Teens for Christ youth council has outsourced the construction of the haunted hall to Lovecraft Enterprises, and our parishioners’ donations (which paid for the transformation of our cathedral) were not wasted.

From the Maze of Hybrid Squalor Near the Ancient Waterfront Opposite Governor Island to the Gardens Which Laugh and Speak, Insolent in Their Chromatic Perversion, you are guaranteed to be creeped out to the MAX. Get ready for fun and fear, and a rock-climbing wall! Our choir loft has been mutated into a monstrously convincing Babel of Sound and Filth and our prayer room was proud to become the Tangle of Material and Spiritual Putrescence of Blashpemies.

And it’s all for you!

Whether you are an elder god, or just an old fashioned unspeakable subterranean menace with a sinless love of Halloween fun, this haunted house is for you. Listen to these satisfied customers from former events:

* I staggered dizzily, shut my eyes, and covered my ears.
o Karen Whitcomb, teacher, age 29

* Holding my knife as far as possible ahead of me, I started once again for the shining crystal.
o Mandi, student, age 7

Remember folks, tell your friends, although we are fairly certain that any description by mortal tongue of the shaggy, dream breeding exhalations to be found at this fun and family oriented event will cause the listener to be driven irrevocably mad with horror.

Praise the Lord! And come on out!

Her interview makes more sense when you stop reading it and “read” it instead, like with your gut. Instead of watching her stare blankly at an interviewer while making little to no sense (scientists refer to this phenomenon as the “I can’t believe you called on me, i will just keep talking until class is over syndrome, or ICBYCOMIWJKTUCIS, or brainjunctivitus) picture her as a revolutionary street poet, stumbling onto a smoky stage, as if by accident, and launching unbidden into this directionless (or is it) screed.

Bin Laden
is
  is
      hiding out right now
and...
   and
      is still such a leader of this terrorist movement.
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My trip to Tiffany’s Waikiki went better than I expected. My fiance impressed me with her choice of wedding jewelry–a pair of mirror-bright Barrington brother’s 70 caliber game rifles trimmed in ivory and standing attentive in quickset florists foam with a splash of baby’s breath.

“They’re beautiful.” My lover struggled to remain composed but nearly wept at the weight of them.

The attendant smiled politely. “They have hair triggers and a set of 100 cartridges is included. “

As she handed one of the display cases to me, it was my turn to fight tears. The chamber was surround by a metallic starburst of precision machining. What I’d thought was a setting fixture for the rifles was instead a wreath of 700 nitro express rounds. I was beginning to hallucinate the scent of cordite filling the display cases and spilling into the street, telling the world of our love.
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I spent several of my young summers at various child depositories masquerading as wilderness retreats. During all my years of summer camp, I only wrote my parents once. I had developed a couple of blisters during a forced march from the mess hall to the state-sponsored rifle range/planetarium. The terrain was pockmarked from the periodic landfall of mortar shells and a tunnel complex being daily expanded by the resident population of moles and gophers (also state-sponsored, genetically altered, and prone to hyperbole—liars every one). This rough and ready landscape was difficult to navigate and many campers slipped, fell or were otherwise laid low. We finished the march muddy, upset, and in my case, blistered.
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