Snarkvark @ PoliSnark.comRemember when Halloween was simple? You’d throw a bed sheet over your head, cut out two crooked eye holes, and BAM—instant ghost. No one gave a shit if your costume looked like you’d just crawled out of a Goodwill dumpster because the whole point was to scam candy out of neighbors who only saw you once a year. And if your pillowcase got full by 9 p.m.? That wasn’t a problem—you dumped the loot at home and went back out for round two. Halloween was a night of unsupervised chaos: smashed pumpkins, soaped-up cars, and front yards that looked like a TP explosion went off. But now? Now it’s a goddamn arms race of inflatable dragons and 12-foot skeletons.
Halloween has officially been hijacked by the Suburban Basic Bitch and her man-bunned, pumpkin-spice-latte-sipping beta male husband. You know the type—their Instagram feeds are packed with #SpookySeason selfies featuring matching family costumes and endless shots of their adorable kids carving Pinterest-inspired jack-o’-lanterns. Except spoiler—mom did most of the carving, and those kids aren’t impressed. They just wanted a Butterfinger, not a tutorial on artisanal pumpkin art.
Welcome to Halloween 2.0: Where Lowe’s and Spirit Halloween Own Your Soul
Here’s the ugly truth: Halloween has become a capitalist fever dream. It used to be about getting free candy, but now it’s about who can blow the most cash on plastic gravestones, animatronic werewolves, and giant inflatables that look like rejected props from a Tim Burton movie. Drive through any suburban neighborhood and it’s like Night of the Living Decorators. Every front yard is packed with 12-foot skeletons, inflatable witches, and glowing tombstones bought at Lowe’s during a “spooky blowout sale.”
And let’s talk about that 12-foot skeleton, shall we? Every goddamn neighborhood has at least three of these things. The skeleton’s got LED eyes that “glow ominously”—as if a plastic bag of bones on your lawn is supposed to make you reflect on your own mortality. But no one’s thinking about death when they see it. They’re just thinking, “Goddamn, Steve and Karen really went all out this year. Wonder how much that thing cost?” Spoiler alert: It cost too fucking much.
Look, I’ll admit the giant skeleton is cool the first time you see it—kind of like when you see someone juggle fire or pull a sick wheelie. But by the fiftieth time, it’s just sad. It’s like the holiday equivalent of a midlife crisis. These people didn’t just buy a plastic skeleton—they invested in seasonal status. And nothing screams, “I peaked in my HOA’s Halloween decorating contest,” like parking a giant animatronic demon next to your fake gravestones.
From Smashed Pumpkins to Spirit Halloween’s Corporate Hellscape
Remember when smashing pumpkins was a normal part of the holiday? Kids would knock them off porches and leave a trail of orange mush down the street. It wasn’t malicious—it was just part of the tradition of controlled chaos. Same with soaping windows or wrapping cars in toilet paper. Hell, the biggest thrill was not getting caught by some angry dad in his boxers wielding a flashlight. Now? None of that shit happens. Kids today don’t even know what soaping a window means. They’re too busy glued to their screens, making TikToks about their Fortnite costumes.
And let’s talk about TP’ing houses. Back in the day, a couple of well-placed rolls of Charmin could turn a tree into a work of art. It was fun, harmless rebellion. Now? You so much as think about TP’ing someone’s house, and Karen from the PTA will post the Ring doorbell footage to the neighborhood Facebook group faster than you can say “trick or treat.” God forbid the little goblins running around today actually participate in some old-school mischief. That would require actual physical movement. No, they’re too busy dragging their exhausted parents through Spirit Halloween to pick out the latest overpriced costume that’s only good for one Instagram photo.
Let’s face it: Spirit Halloween isn’t a store—it’s a seasonal money-sucking vortex. It pops up in every dead mall like a bad rash, selling $50 costumes made of flammable fabric and plastic weapons that’ll break by November 1st. This place is where Halloween dreams go to die—and where Suburban Basic Bitches thrive. They load up on fake cobwebs, plastic skeletons, and fog machines, convinced that the more shit they cram into their front yards, the spookier they’ll look. Hate to break it to you, Bethany, but your animatronic zombie isn’t scaring anyone. It’s just pissing off the neighbors.
Suburbia: Where Halloween Is Bigger Than Christmas
I swear to God, these people spend more time and money celebrating Halloween than they do on Christmas. They’ll load up their Subaru with haunted house decorations, fog machines, and skeleton dogs—but ask them to spend the same amount of effort on Christmas, and suddenly it’s, “Eh, we’ll just put a wreath on the door this year.” How the hell did a holiday about free candy and low-stakes vandalism turn into this overblown display of decorative dick-measuring? I’ll tell you how: We commercialized the shit out of it.
You’ve got people who barely believe in religion decking their houses out with more demons than Dante’s Inferno. Meanwhile, that same house will have one sad string of lights at Christmas—and only because the HOA requires it. But hey, as long as Spirit Halloween is happy, who cares if your kids think Santa’s a capitalist sellout?
Bring Back the Chaos, Damn It
Here’s the thing: Halloween used to be about freedom and fun. It was a night to rot your teeth, run wild with your friends, and commit minor acts of vandalism that would be forgiven by morning. The only rule was to be home by the time the streetlights came on—unless you were having too much fun smashing gourds in the street. Now? Everything’s so sanitized and overdone, it’s lost the magic.
Instead of inflatable skeletons and elaborate lawn displays, I want to see some real Halloween spirit. I want kids sneaking out after dark with bars of soap and rolls of toilet paper, just trying to outsmart the neighborhood snitch. I want pillowcases filled with shitty candy—the kind that would make a dentist cry. And I want people to stop pretending that a $500 animatronic demon from Pottery Barn makes them festive. It doesn’t. It just makes you look like an asshole with too much disposable income.
So let’s take Halloween back, people. Ditch the inflatable nonsense and embrace the chaos. Buy a cheap-ass costume, eat too much candy, and maybe—just maybe—smash a pumpkin or two. Because at the end of the day, Halloween isn’t about giant skeletons or fog machines. It’s about having a damn good time.
Now get off your ass, grab a roll of TP, and let’s make Halloween great again. Fuck the inflatables.
