The new Party City flyer came in the mail today. It was loaded with this season’s top Halloween costumes and I can confirm that Spongebob’s eyes gain a little extra something when they’re stretched over adult female breasts.
Halloween used to belong to the kids. Then those kids grew up and they refused to let go of Halloween and they took their costumes with them. Then they made some alterations. It started with Sexy Nurse. Now we’re treated to a sexy version of every conceivable monster, career, and fictional character. Including Spongebob.
The fact that there’s a Sexy Spongebob represents a failure on so many levels. First off, some jackass costume company executive thought:
“Hmm. We need much money. Let me consult Making Much Money for Dummies. ‘Rule 1: Sex sells. Throw tits at it.’ Genius! You know what gets grown men harder than diamonds?”
“No,” replied Jack Ass’s underling with near fatal doses of bored resignation. He answered but he knew he could never supply the right answer. Better to just say no and await the inevitable, irrefutable wisdom from Jack Ass.
“Spongebob. All guys want to do Spongebob and all the women want to be Spongebob.” And there it was.
“Umm, I don’t kn–”
“So let’s give them what they want and hope to the ALMIGHTY DOLLAR that someone at Nick Jr is stupid enough to agree.”
“We’re on board. Please proceed.”
“But . . . how did you . . .”
So that’s how that story played out. And people are buying it.
I’m not the first to bemoan this trend. I won’t be the last, either. I’m not sweating originality with these words. Just adding another voice to the discussion with my powerful PSL-scented breath.
There exists a monument to the sexualization of Halloween: the wall at Party City that displays pics of every costume they sell. I have made the pilgrimage. You walk up to it and point and someone emerges from an EMPLOYEES ONLY doorway with that exact costume in your size. They hand it to you and float back into the darkened back room, never saying a word, never taking their eyes off of you.
The adult female section of the costume wall, with pics of every available adult female costume, resembles the escort ads in the back of The Reader (never saw them) or the covers of the DVDs that line the shelves at your local porn store. Not that I have ever been in a porn store.
It’s like they assume that every woman wants to be a skank for Halloween. And I’m sure that intellectuals could examine this in more depth and with a hell of a lot more brainpower than I possess and cite reasons why there’s this WHORIFICATION of Halloween, but I–
*EXTREMELY SHRILL WHISTLE*
“Hold it right there, mister PIG!”
What the f**k was that for? And who are you?
“I’m your male guilt and you’re slut-shaming.”
Uh, I’ve never heard of ‘male guilt’ and no I’m not.
“No, of course you’re not. Not with words like ‘skank’ and ‘whore.’ No, not at all.”
I’m just saying that the costume offerings for women are suggestive. They’re being foisted on consumers by profit-addicted assholes and every year women are made to feel like they’re supposed to be objectified, sexualized, and–
“Are you a woman? Seriously, I don’t know.”
No. I’m not.
“Well then how do you know how women feel every year? Or even one woman?!”
Listen, I don’t know how–
“So if a woman wants to show her body, she’s a whore? A skank?”
. . .
“Are you proud that you invented a new word? WHORIFICATION. Proud of yourself, for that? Proud that you can craft a new cudgel to beat women back into submission?”
I thought I was sticking up for women . . .
“Well, then maybe you shouldn’t think. We don’t need you to stick up for women. We don’t need male pig allies. We don’t need a man to save us. Thank you for demonstrating that the patriarchy is alive and well.”
The man’s section of the costume wall has these costumes called Morphsuits. And this costume is the best thing to happen to Halloween since the Sexy Nurse first graced the Party City costume wall.
If you’ve never seen a Morphsuit, it’s basically a body condom. It covers your everything. And they print wacky-ass shit on these body condoms. They have hillybilly Morphsuits, zombie Morphsuits, and this muscle Morphsuit that looks like the person wearing it has been flayed.
When I saw this on the costume wall, I pointed at it and an employee emerged to hand me the XL size. She encouraged me to try it on, stating that this one was brand new and no one had tried it on before. That filled me with tremendous relief. I couldn’t imagine squeezing into this thing after someone else had squeezed into it. I think that’s how pregnancies happen.
I stripped down to my underwear and slithered into my new skin. I could barely see through the material stretched across my eyes. When you wear a Morphsuit, seeing the world isn’t a priority–it’s how the world sees you that makes all the difference. What I was able to see of my reflection in the fitting room mirror was absolute magic. I knew that I had no choice. I needed to buy the muscle meat Morphsuit. If only to spare the next guy the pleasure of slipping into the suit after me and covering themselves in my dead skin cells and pubes. I kinda felt obligated after violating it like that.
“So that’s it?”
“You’re just going to leave it at that? The stupid Morphsuit?”
“Nothing else about women? That was the whole point of this post! And you just switch it up in the middle and then end it?”
I guess so.
I guess so.
“You’re definitely going to lose subscribers over this shit.”
We’ll see. Won’t we?
“Yeah, you’ll see.”