Margaret BauerPicture this: A young Arbiter traipsing amidst the streets of his neighborhood, gorging himself on succulent morsels of caloric delight, laughing aloud wildly with his “friends” (alright, the only people he could find that would go within ten feet of candy with him). He was dressed to the nines-somewhere betwixt hooker and haute couture. He is a Spice Girl, a Spice Person to be more to the point. He and four of his lady friends forged an alliance that in eighth grade, at the zenith of the popularity of that feisty British import, they would magically transform, a la Cinderella on crack, and become the quintet.
He, I, was Posh Spice of course. Was there a doubt? Ginger? Too slutty and too drunk (though given that she was most like a drag queen, it would have been appropriate). Sporty? Not enough musculature. Scary? My ‘fro wasn’t fully formed. Baby? I’m not that innocent. (I wish…). Alas, who else could fill the shoes of the young aristocrat, vocally challenged, but stylistically fabulous. And I already had an affected English accent by way of fascination with pre-Esther Madonna. Bloody hell!
After that, I wasn’t sure any Halloween could top my time as Posh, and frankly, I haven’t had the inspiration to try much since. There was that unfortunate incident in my freshman year of college when I channeled Alicia Keys-rolled-up jeans, oxford tied at midriff (if you can call it that), ‘do rag, tipped hat and fishnet gloves. Alright, I’d “fallen.” This was subsequently followed by my mother’s finding of the photos taken that night. Needless to say, we had a heart-to-heart of the Britney and Lynn Spears’ variety.
So that brings me to this year. I can barely peel off my black Juicy Couture sweatpants, let alone go all out in dress up mode. However, in honor of He who grants life, Satan, and the holiday that relishes in His existence, I suppose I can consider the several options open to me:
-Wardrobe Malfunction Janet: Desperate to revive a sagging career, I will masquerade through the night as a dominatrix-style, leather-clad floozy, with one of my enhanced breasts flailing in the wind for all the world to see. I will hope the ninja star affixed to my nipple doesn’t graze an unsuspecting fan, since I need all the support I can get. I will lip synch my way down the boulevard, hoping to avoid any bitter criticism from Elton John, and use my questionable feminine wiles to get a Crunch bar or two. Then, I will eat them and beef up, as I am known to do between albums, and look into colonics before my next overproduced R&B hybrid hits the airwaves.
-Who’s Your Baby Daddy Usher: I will sport only a pair of boxers and Fubu jeans sewn to the bottom of them. I will do five thousand crunches in preparation for my shameless strip teasing. I will falsely claim to have impregnated the different mothers who have given me treats, and then write 13 songs that sound alike talking about these fabricated love affairs. I will blame it all on sex addiction (with my mother who is my manager looking on with pride). After not being able to live with myself because of excessive navel gazing, I might as well let this myself burn.
-How’d She Get to be a Celebrity Leelee: As facially retarded “actress” (term used liberally, here) Leelee Sobieski, I will pretend to be really really intellectual and really really talented, but I will be neither. I will be annoying, so annoying that you question if I am worse or on par with my partner in cinematic crime, Julia Stiles. I will have a dreadfully grating monotone voice. I will apply to Ivy League schools based on my r‚sum‚, but they will not have heard of me. I will forget that such other heralded performers like Jonathan Taylor Thomas went that same route. I will fade into oblivion with my basket of goodies in hand, but I will use big words all the way down!
Really, the possibilities are endless, but I almost prefer an issue of In Touch to dressing up like the foolmakers (it’s my word I stole from teen non-blockbuster Love Don’t Cost a Thing!) it celebrates, whom I cherish so much. Kids just aren’t my thing, and I would rather ruin their time than share in the good one they’re having. So if it’s alright with Lucifer, I might take this year off. That is, of course, unless my Bloated Bride Britney costume comes in the mail, replete with jean cut-offs, a Jamba Juice drink and some Sno Balls. In that case, do I hear any takers to wear the Gold-digging Backup Dancer Illegitimate Child-Bearing Kevin Federline costume I already have? I promise you can keep the wife beater!