By Rob Holbert Managing Editor

Tricks and treats approach

Halloween approaches rapidly, and with young children in the house that’s a big deal. There are costume considerations, decorations and, of course, lots of candy to be purchased.

On a recent night , the kids and I carved a very scary-looking jack-o-lantern before they went to bed. Then, as is my Halloween-time habit , I ate the entire first batch of candy my wife purchased for the trick-or-treaters and watched the news. There was plenty of election news, as well as the usual potpourri of strange local stuff. I soon dozed off and had the strangest dream:

It was Halloween night and I was busy stashing handfuls of the “good” candy in a couch cushion to eat later after the wife wasn’t looking at me and wondering how long it will be before I have a massive coronary from devouring trash. Night was falling and the trick-or-treaters were starting to make the rounds. The doorbell rang. The previous owners apparently thought the alien communication tones from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” would make a good doorbell. It doesn’t. But that’s what we’ve got, and I immediately realized it was going to be a long night.

I trudged to the door expecting small children dressed as rock stars and hookers, but there stood a guy wearing the most dead-on Barack Obama costume imaginable.

“Trick…..... or…............ treat,” he said haltingly. It was a great impression.

“Nice costume buddy, but you’re a little old for this, aren’t you?” I said. “Still, it’s the best Obama costume I’ve ever seen. You really look like him.”

“Ha, ha! It’s not a costume, sir…. I am, in fact, Senator Obama and I’m here to ask for your vote… to shift someone else’s earnings to your account….. and for some of those Twix bars. I love those things.”

I realized it was really Obama and gave him a few Twix. I wanted to ask him a question or two, but was afraid the national media would try to “plumber” me and look up all sorts of bad things about me and broadcast them all over the country. So I just told him he was on my short list and wished him luck.

“Thank you sir. By the way, if Joe Biden comes by, you might save some of those mini Snickers for him. He loves them and the caramel keeps him from talking too much,” Obama said.

No sooner had I settled back onto the couch than the “Close Encounters” theme sounded again. This time a daunting figure in a black robe loomed on the porch. I was almost too frightened to open the door.

“Herman Thomas?” I said quizzically . “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in a secret room somewhere with a young, male inmate?”

“Trick-or-treat!” he hollered. Then he pointed behind me and said, “Hey, you dropped some M&Ms there.”

I turned around and bent over to pick them up, but immediately felt something smack my butt. Hard. I wheeled around and saw Herman standing there grinning with a wooden paddle in his hand.

“I guess you got a trick,” he said laughing and backing down the front stairs. “Man that felt good! I haven’t paddled a man in a while! Wooo-eeeeee! By the way newspaper boy, you can keep writing about me all you want, the legal powers in this state aren’t ever going to mess with me. I’m indictment-proof. In fact, I might come back later and egg your house. I can do anything I want. Just remember that.”

I rubbed my stinging butt and closed the door. Ten seconds later the doorbell rang again. At this point I wasn’t even that shocked to see who it was.

“Trick-or-treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat,” said Alabama Attorney General Troy King. He was holding a guitar and had a couple of young men with him. One of them carried a portable stereo playing Troy’s terrible song he recorded with the dead Johnny Cash. He flashed a wormy smile and kind of whispered, “Really, you can smell my feet…. if you’re into that.”

I gave Troy a fistful of Sweet Tarts and told him he’d just missed the guy who might be into that. I sent him after Herman and he and his friends left my porch quickly. On their way out of the gate, a befuddled-looking man staggered into the yard and began slowly trying to make his way up the stairs.

“Stricker-treat!” Kenny Stabler slurred.

“Snake! Good to see you. What do you want? I’ve got the good bowl of candy hidden over here. Take your pick.”

“Got any beer in that bowl, man? Don’t worry, I’m not driving,” Snake said winking.

“Well Snake, seeing as the candy’s for the neighborhood kids, I didn’t bother to put any beer in the bowl. Can’t really help you out,” I replied.

“I don’t guess you want to buy my house on Ono Island either, huh? Rose is really busting my figs about it,” he said.

“Nope.”

“Alright. Gimme soma them Three Musketeers, then,” he said, plunging his hand into the bowl. I watched him stagger back out the front gate shoving candy in his mouth. Suddenly Herman Thomas ran up and smacked him on the ass with a paddle. Kenny reacted slowly while Thomas screamed, “Woooo-hooo. Trick-or-treat, baby! The paddling judge is back!” I went inside.

Over the next couple of hours I had a few more frightening visitors. A few members of the city council came by and told me I was a racist for not having dark chocolate to hand out. John McCain tried to glare me into giving him all my candy and promising my vote. And Tommy Tuberville said he just wanted a place to hide for a few days and cry.

I woke with a start after Herman Thomas ran by and paddled an unsuspecting and dejected Tubby and all the Auburn fans on the street cheered him on. The whole thing left me thinking I might just turn out the lights and hide when the big night hits next week. There are too many scary characters out there right now.

Rob Holbert is Lagniappe managing editor. Contact him at rholbert@lagniappemobile.com.

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