last night i dreamt of half a snake

It happened to be the business end of a timber rattlesnake, though I suppose the “business end” on one of those things could be the bit with the rattle, as they do not call then “timber poisonous fang snakes”. However, hikers would do well to mind the oral end of the beast and not get mesmerized by the shiny rattle.

Anyway, in my dream I happened upon one shortly after someone had cut the thing in twain and, thinking it to be dead, passed by it with little regard. That’s when the business end began chasing me like some unceasing sock puppet. We happened to be in a shopping mall for some reason and I managed to slow the thing down by leading it up the down escalator. Keep that in mind if you ever find yourself in a similar situation.

Feel free to interpret.

six weird things

Sarasue was kind enough to tag me on the “six weird things about myself” post. It took me a while to come up with something, as I understandably seem pretty normal to myself and could more easily come up with weird things about Mrs. Camino or anyone else I come in contact with, but some thought on the matter eventually uncovered a few things. I’ll attempt to relay six that aren’t too embarrassing and probably don’t require professional attention, though I doubt they’re all that interesting.

1. My bat-like hearing picks up on every little rattle within a car and it drives me insane. If I’m in a car with you and there is a rattle going on somewhere you can rest assured that I’ve heard little of anything you’ve said.

2. If I had the money I would not wear the same pair of socks twice. They’re never quite as comfortable as the first time you wear them, and it is a travesty that in the wealthiest nation on earth only the super rich can afford to treat socks as disposable.

3. I also can’t stand it if my socks are the slightest bit uneven. I sometimes have to go through my rather large sock drawer trying to match up socks that are the same length. It then bothers me that I might be wearing one sock that has been washed more than the other, but I deal with it. I may not have heard anything you just said to me because I’m busy quietly dealing with it in my head, but my whole problem with “unevenness” is indeed getting better. For instance, when I was growing up and would bump into a door with my shoulder I would then have to bump into the same door with the other shoulder to even it out. This wouldn’t extend to things like slamming my hand in the car door or stubbing my toe on furniture, but it had to be done on the small-scale collisions. Anyway, now it’s just limited to compulsively attempting to even out my socks and sideburns.

4. But that isn’t to say that I no longer bump into things. I do, and it happens quite frequently, as I seem to have very poor depth perception and would probably move about more effectively if I employed my bat-like hearing and coupled it with some high pitch screeching in order to create a sonar effect. I’m always either bumping into things or misjudging the distance of objects on a table. In fact, if I spend any amount of time in your house and leave without tripping over something or knocking anything over you can rest assured that I was too busy concentrating on not doing those things to have heard the majority of our conversation.

5. I can’t fall asleep without a radio on, preferably tuned to non-political talk radio or new age, jazz, or classical music. I will otherwise keep myself awake obsessively thinking about random and insignificant things.

6. I’m a compulsive cat startler. If a cat walks by and I can sense that the slightest flinch will send it a good foot or so in the air I will make it happen. It’s a bit like fishing. One has to wait for that perfect moment in which the smallest movement will garner the biggest reaction and then seize upon it. It may be a bit cruel, but I daresay that few things in life are as amusing as a startled cat taking flight, though attempting the same thing when the cat walks under a coffee table can render the satisfactory thud of the cat’s head against the underside. This has the added bonus of the cat startler not being able to see the cat and having to just know when the perfect moment to flinch is. It occurs to me that the holy grail of the sport would be to get a cat to hit the underside of the dining room table, but that is perhaps thinking too big.

By the way, the cat always finds a way to avenge itself. This usually consists of leaping out from behind furniture to attack me like Cato in the Pink Panther movies, thus continuing the vicious circle

which reminds me of an anecdote involving one of my own racist relatives

Desegregation was hard on my uncle Thurman. He lived his entire life in a remote part of Mississippi, with the notable exception of that time FDR sent him to Normandy, and never had much motivation for accepting others of races unlike his own. By the way, he emerged from Normandy unscratched but decided that war wasn’t really for him. So it was that he shot himself in the foot and then proceeded to dig around in the wound with a pocket knife each time it looked close to being healed enough to send him back into battle.

Anyway, no amount of self-inflicted wounding could keep desegregation away, but that didn’t mean that uncle Thurman had to like it. He didn’t, and he would tell you as much, regardless of your race, size, or whether you outnumbered him by a great deal. I only met my uncle Thurman a handful of times but I’m told that he would sometimes walk into a restaurant, find that it had too great a clientele of African descent for his liking, announce as much to anyone within earshot, and then leave. Only he wouldn’t quite phrase it like that. No, uncle Thurman’s favorite word was a derogatory term that he used quite often and in the midst of any group.

However, the reason he didn’t get his ass kicked had nothing to do with the fact that he was old, skinny, cross-eyed and therefore a little too pathetic to fight regardless of the insult. No, uncle Thurman also had an odd speech impediment that made all his words beginning with the letter N come across with a distinct R sound. For example: The word “nice” came across as “rice” and “night” was “right”.

Therefore, anyone sitting in that particular restaurant and paying any attention whatsoever to uncle Thurman would’ve clearly understood him to say, “I can’t eat here; there are too many rigors.”

rex's holiday memories: thanksgiving 2006

First, let us begin with a random sampling of paraphrased things we learned from Mrs. Camino’s chainsmoking grandmother yesterday:

1. Cows are stupid.

2. You can’t ever really know what an Asian person is thinking.

3. Not all Mexicans cross over into Texas. Many of them just walk across the bridge into Sacramento.

4. Babies will steal your calcium and leave you a withered old woman.

5. She still doesn’t understand why we haven’t “begat” her any great-grandchildren yet.

6. We had to be thinking of the Spanish-American war because there was no such thing as the Mexican-American war. This came as news to my brother-in-law’s Mexican wife.

7. Santa Ana was still a bastard.

8. Most of your big band singers were either Jews or Italians, except for Bing Crosby. He was Irish and that's why he stayed drunk all the time.

9. Donkeys these days are lazy.

This was our second year to pick up Mrs. Camino’s grandmother and spend a pleasant half hour car trip with her to Thanksgiving dinner. Last year we put her in the back seat and didn’t talk to her much aside from trying to derail her dissertation on how short and ugly Mexicans were, but this only led to a year of complaining about how we ignored her, and that is just the sort of thing that gets one bumped from the will. So it was that we placed her in the passenger seat this year with her asthmatic Pomeranian in her lap and the window rolled down enough for the longsuffering dog to feel the wind on its face but not so much for it to leap out of the window into a desired separation from its owner. I even compiled a list of conversation starting questions on our way there, though Mrs. Camino only used about one and a half of them during the course of our trip:

1. What’s your favorite thing about me?

2. Have you ever seen a Bigfoot?

3. Can you be absolutely sure that cranberries don’t feel pain?

4. Do you love Satan as much as we do?

5. What would be a reasonable price one could expect to pay for a donkey?

Mrs. Camino used the first of these to derail a World War II reminiscence that made an ugly turn into a dissertation on Asians, and her grandmother’s favorite thing about Mrs. Camino, after considerable thought on the matter, is her curly hair. Her favorite thing about me is that I don’t talk much. Mrs. Camino was later able to work in a question about the relevance of donkeys on the modern farm when her grandmother noticed a donkey staring at her from a field, but the worth of the donkey was never actually discussed.

rex's holiday memories: the day before thanksgiving 2002

This was in the midst of my two years as an office temp in Knoxville, specifically during my stint in the file warehouse of the large mobile home manufacturing company, and on a rare day when I was the first to arrive. I think perhaps that everyone else on that side of the building took the impending holiday as an excuse to come in late. At any rate, this left me with the responsibility for turning on the lights. It seemed simple enough at the time.

I began with the usual places for light switches to be located. It has been my experience that they are generally close to the door, and I began there with my foot propping the door open to bring in a little light from the hallway. However, the light switches were nowhere to be found, and this unfortunately meant that I would have to leave the propped door and its sliver of light and venture along the wall in pitch darkness looking for them in their seemingly inconvenient location.

This front part of the warehouse served as a small data entry room with computers along the wall that were usually manned by ladies who spent all day complaining about how their husbands and boyfriends never gave them any sex. This was quite common in my experiences in the data entry hen houses of Knox and Blount counties, and I sometimes wonder if a sociology thesis could be written on the matter, though writing it myself would negate the time and effort I’ve taken to fruitlessly attempt erasing these scenes from my mind.

But I digress.

Anyway, I’m feeling along the wall just above these computers and running my hand over motivational posters, lists of codes, and photographs of husbands, boyfriends, and litters of children proving that someone at sometime had in fact been kind enough to give these women some sex. I’m getting papercuts and probably an assortment of germs but I’m not finding any light switches.

Then the lights come on.

I turn and see one of the ladies from the data entry section across the hall in the mailroom just as she has finished engaging the row of light witches that had previously been obscured by a billboard beside the door. I think I said something along the lines of, “Ah. So that’s where they were.”

The woman looked over at me and began screaming at the top of her lungs. She did not stop for at least a full ten seconds.

Now, I had interacted with the data hen house across the hall on a few occasions when they needed files or had brought in baked goods. They were a much older hen house and gave off a more grandmotherly atmosphere. There wasn’t quite as much sex talk.

The woman presently screaming at me was quite short and probably in her mid sixties. She had a small head covered in short dyed black hair and wore large glasses, large earrings and Hawaiian shirts usually covered by a large olive drab cardigan. In the children’s cartoon of my life story she will be played by a deranged turtle.

Anyway, she screamed at me in a bug eyed primal terror for about as long as it just took to describe her and then stood there panting. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of one of these outbursts, but it is at first unnerving and then quite hilarious. Then initial surge of adrenaline that comes from the shrill and piercing call of the deranged little turtle quickly turns to an uncontrolled laughter that doesn’t stop with the screaming. I continued laughing as she stood there trying to catch her breath. She didn’t think it was that funny and even looked like she was about to go for round two. I wanted to apologize but I couldn’t quite get it out between the laughter.

She was still bug eyed. She was red and shaking, and just when I thought she was going to start with the screaming again she said, “You don’t expect for somebody to be there when you turn the lights on” and then quickly retreated back to her side of the hallway.

I was still laughing my ass off, but the current emptiness of the room really highlighted the fact that I was the only one doing so. The laughter then fizzled into an awkward evaluation of how exactly one is to proceed after an occurrence. I could either just go about my work like nothing happened or follow the turtle across the hall where, as I then began imagining, she was weaving a tale about how that temp who always hides in the warehouse taking a nap or reading a book finally snapped and had been waiting in the dark across the hall with a meat cleaver all night.

Going across the hall didn’t seem like the thing to do, but across the hall soon began coming to me and cautiously peeking through the door. There was fear in the eyes of little old ladies, and I began laughing again. However, I managed to stumble through my side of the story a number of times, explaining each time how placing a billboard over the light switch was bound to lead to a bit of confusion, though sending the turtle lady into cardiac arrest may not have been so foreseeable. It was an honest mistake, I essentially told them, though their blank stares seemed to ask me why I liked hiding in the dark to scare old ladies.

Thus proving once again that it is always the temp’s fault.

Anyway, our little Thanksgiving lunch was a bit awkward that day.

you be me for a while and i'll be you

The great thing about traveling late on a fairly clear night through Tennessee is the assortment of AM radio stations from New Orleans to Chicago that one can pick up. Most of these deal in sports or news, but there is usually one or two with something a bit out of the ordinary enough to keep the driver awake and semi-alert and, for the most part, on his side of the yellow dashes.

For instance, a local show in Cincinnati the other night featured a pet psychic answering calls ranging from the thoughts of recently deceased pets in their final days to missing pets to the ailments of living and accounted for pets. One caller in particular was told that his poodle was indeed the reincarnation of a German Shepherd he had as a child. This, according to the pet psychic, is not uncommon.

It seems to me that the selling point on reincarnation is the possibility to move up the ladder with each existence or to drop a rung or two if you do something heinous or are the person who is responsible for Robin Williams films. The notion that one could keep coming back at the same level or that reincarnation itself is random rather sours me on the process. I mean, it's rather depressing to think that the Thanksgiving turkey this year could very well be the same turkey that sat on grandmother's table back in 1987 or that the exciting life of a semi-unemployed blogger awaits me on the other side of my impending aneurysm. Don't get me wrong, it's been a great life and I've had comparatively little to complain about thus far, but I'd much prefer to spend the next round as a Latin American strong man, a Japanese pop star, the white tiger that finally has enough and eats the magician, a chainsmoking grape harvester in northern Italy, a bona fide ninja, a crested warbler, Tony Danza, or anything else I haven't had the opportunity to be before.

Methinks a bit of variety would look good on the spiritual resume.

and do they also make a hat specifically for those being stalked by deer?

And did Sherlock ever actually stalk any deer? Now, the closest I’ve come to ever engaging in a hunt were the times I would dispatch cockroaches with my trusty bb gun in those less than ideal apartments we inhabited en route to the Casa Camino, but it occurs to me now that nothing in the features of the deerstalker cap make it a better suited head adornment for deerstalking that it would be for, say, getting drunk and shooting rats down at the dump or dispatching with cockroaches crawling above your television set as the pets look on in amazement.

It’s odd. They see the filthy little bastards spontaneously combust and are thus embiggened with a new respect for their master. You should try it with your unruly pets sometime.

Anyway, in my brief digestion of the question in the title I’ve come up with only two possible answers. This hat would seem like the logical choice. It disguises the prey to appear as a predator and would give most killer deer a bit of a pause. My only other idea would be a Viking helmet—specifically the horned type worn by actual Vikings and not the purple football helmet worn by the Minnesota’s football Vikings. Two-dimensional horns are seldom as effective as real horns at combating a good set of antlers.

Why do I bring this up? Well, obviously, I feel that I’m being stalked by a deer. He is a young stag, specifically, and he often watches me from the edge of the woods along the battlefield as I walk Carl Weathers. He either wants or is giving the perception that he wants a piece of the Camino, and all that stands between your hero and the possibility of an unwanted evisceration is a Swiss army knife and a cowardly spaniel. He stands with his chest out, nostrils flaring and a harem of doe scattered in the woods behind him. It is mating season and he is probably just showing off, but he is doing so at increasingly shorter distances. However, he isn’t there every time, and the only way to guarantee that I will not encounter him on a given visit is to have my camera with me.

This has been going on for about two months now, and I wanted to mention it before, but it seemed like the sort of thing that needed visual accompaniment to provide the full effect and perhaps shut up once and for all any smart-ass therapists who choose to ignore very real possibility that random forest creatures are out to get one of their patients. I may have been wrong about the Mothman eating my favorite pair of corduroy slacks, lady, but that’s no reason to dismiss the phenomenon of killer deer. Surely you believe that deer exist. Just wait till I show up gutted and bleeding and then we’ll see who does the laughing.

I hate to spoil it for you, sister, but it is I who will do the laughing, though I’m sure it’ll probably hurt a bit.

Anyway, this reasonable recreation will have to suffice for now.

something more for the newscoma

However, this story of a bigfoot sighting along the Alabama-Georgia border leaves me wanting more on the "Dogzilla".

to sell a better sasquatch

Look, I'll be honest, I often buy books or CDs based on good cover design. Conversely, I'm sure I've bypassed a great deal of good music and literature simply because it suffered from unfortunate packaging. This is generally the fault of record and publishing companies and therefore shouldn't reflect negatively on the artists, but it does.

Now, let's imagine that you've dedicated yourself to the study of Cryptozoology. Specifically, you have made it your life's goal to find the Australian Sasquatch. You will no doubt face skepticism and disrespect from large portions of the scientific community and general public, but all this will do little to thwart your passion for the subject matter. You're forging ahead into the unknown, damn it, and you will return with truths that the rest of us might not quite be ready to comprehend. In fact, you're a bona fide author and you're going to put these things in books that aren't likely to recieve the the credibility they deserve in your lifetime, though the bastards will certainly respect your work when somebody turns up with an actual "Yowie". Yes, you believe in yourself, and that's all that matters for now.

Indeed. However, you or your publishing company probably should have put a bit more thought into your jacket design.

Yes, I've spent my life in search of this mythical beast described in the traditional stories of the Aboriginal people. I've been lampooned, discredited, and cast to the dark corners of the scientific community for the sake of unraveling the mystery of this elusive humanoid...What does it look like? Well, I like to describe it as a rabid Chewbacca with fangs and a penchant for lipstick. Do you think they could convey that on the cover?

fear of a black rex

One of the great things about being adopted is that my ethnic origins are mostly unknown and therefore subject to a bit of creativity. I’m mostly white, obviously, and I know of some Scottish ancestry, but there is no one to say that some of the unknown branches in my family tree aren’t black, Asian, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, or Chippewa. In fact, there were a couple of regrettable binge drinking episodes in college when it was later recounted to me that I engaged in diatribes against whitey for stealing my land and then segwayed into discussions of themes for my Casino.

No, I’m not quite sure that any race would want my representation either.

Anyway, there was another incident a few years back when a Mexican janitor told me that I was a black man on the inside. I hesitate to tell the story since I found out later that the man was a bit of a fraud and that…

Ah, when did you find out that he wasn’t really a proctologist?

That’s a different story, Captain Howdy. Anyway, I discovered later that the Mexican janitor was actually Honduran and that he was simply a coworker who liked to sweep the hallway in his spare moments. I don’t know why. I never got to know him that well, but he was sweeping by my office one day when he was drawn in by some Howlin’ Wolf playing on the stereo.

“You like this music?” he asked.

Now, I rarely pass up the opportunity for a good sarcastic remark, but the plight of the sanitation worker deserved a bit of respect, I thought. Also, he had a crazy look on his face.

“Sure,” I answered.

He came in closer, leaned down toward me, pointed to my chest and said, “On the outside you are white, but on the inside you are a black man.”

I rarely remember the specific wording of things that people tell me. However, my brain took a moment to chisel this one out for posterity. It then took another moment to peripherally scan the desk for something that could be used as a weapon with which to defend myself.

I nodded politely, awkwardly answered him with some bit about wishing that more people could see the black man inside me, and then breathed easier at his exit.

He didn’t work there for long, and we never again discussed the black man inside me, but I was a bit troubled at the few conversations we had afterward, as they dealt mostly with his distrust of the actual janitor who he was convinced was a Gypsy out to curse him and steal things from him. The janitor was actually Serbian. I had never feigned being a Gypsy, a Serb, or a janitor and was therefore not personally offended.

Now, did the fact that a Honduran Gypsyphobe found me to be black man on the inside cost me the Tennessee senate race?

I’d like to think so.

democracy inaction: a concession speech of sorts

Friends, Supporters, Assorted Sheep who voted for “actual candidates”, and a handful of Zombies that I may or may not have created using my very own Halloween zombie recipe for the sole purpose of getting votes and then maybe getting together a Camino team for the local basketball league, though such an act certainly would have neglected to take into consideration the fact that zombies are not the best exhibitors of hand-eye coordination:

It appears that my bid to be the next Senator from (or Governor of) Tennessee has failed miserably. Yes, there were those who said from the start that my chances of winning were about the same as a porcupine has for successfully making sweet love to a balloon animal, but I was not among them. The nay Sayers will always say nay, and I thought it best to ignore them and proceed with the greatest of optimism in those few times when I actually remembered that I was running.

Anyway, I need to make this brief, as the desk clerk here at the Motel 6 off I-24 has threatened to call the cops if I don’t either rent a room or vacate the premises.

Yes, I’ve apparently forgotten to mention that this would serve as campaign headquarters. It seemed like the thing to do since all the other hotel banquet rooms in the area were booked. However, I didn’t realize at the time that Motel 6 lobbies were this small, so I suppose that in the end it’s best that nobody showed up.

Anyway, I don’t have the patience to stay up watching election results to find out who the actual winner is and will therefore briefly address each scenario. Please skip over the incorrect one:

In the event of a Corker victory: Um, yes, congratulations on electing a smaller version of what you already had, Republicans. I suppose rubber stamps come in all sizes.

In the event of a Ford victory: Congratulations on electing someone who voted for the war, invokes the name of God in every sentence, and who strongly opposes gay marriage. That’ll really teach those Republicans.

Either way I think this election came down to a clear choice. Voters could either send a politician or a frequently unemployed blogger to Washington, and they, as usual, chose unwisely.

Look, I’m not going to forecast doom and gloom here, as the faithful rank and file of the losing party are certainly better equipped with the talking points for such diatribes, but you should know that we’re all screwed.

However, don’t worry about ol’ Rex. I suppose I’ll go home to literally and figuratively mend fences or clear brush or do something equally photo op-ish. There’s always next time and all that. For now I’ll just help this zombie basketball team that I’ve never seen before and certainly had no hand in creating clean up confetti here in the Motel 6 lobby before the law shows up. Then I'll return to Casa Camino in defeat, secure in the knowledge that there are other and more effective ways than democracy for rising to power.

So, goodnight and go drink.

RLC

one last thing

The main thing you should remember when you're out there voting today is that not a single one of you received an annoying call from the Camino campaign. Sure, I may have hidden in your shrubs and taken the occasional incriminating photograph, but I never openly intruded into your life.

Yes, my fear of the telephone probably had a great deal to do with it, but I also like to think of myself as a considerate individual.

...with a lot of interesting photographs.

Anyway, just keep that in mind.

Also, I have yet to publish the manifesto, but one of the long term goals of the Camino Plan is the creation of an American monarchy, and a King Camino means no more getting pummeled with cold rain in the voting lines or running into trouble with the voting machines or getting those annoying calls or getting any calls at all.

But there will be time for talk of the Rextopia later.

First things first, people.

some last minute campaigning

Joe Six-Pack: People who care about things have guilted me into voting this year, but I was surprised to find that there really isn’t anyone to vote for. I’m upset because A) the Republicans have screwed everything up B) God has apparently endorsed a Democrat for senate C) no hablo ingles. Who can I vote for?

Rex: You can write in Rex L Camino.

Joe Six-Pack: Who the hell is Rex L. Camino?

Rex: I am.

Joe Six-Pack: What is that, your porn name?

Rex: No, it’s a blog name. My porn name is "Pedro Pantalones".

Joe Six-Pack: What will you do if you’re elected.

Rex: First, I’ll stop doing porn, as it would be disrespectful to the office.

Joe Six-Pack: What office?

Rex: The office of porn star. Politics would disgrace it.

Joe Six-Pack: Then what will you do?

Rex: Can I have one of those beers?

Joe Five-Pack: Sure.

Rex: Thanks. Secondly, I’m sure I’ll find a way to disgrace whatever office I’m elected to.

Joe Five-Pack: Is that all?

Rex: Pretty much. It will be the same performance I’ve given in all the other jobs I’ve had, but this one has benefits and a six-figure income.

Joe Five-Pack: So are you a Republican or something?

Rex: No, I’m actually registered as a Democrat for the sole purpose of being able to vote for John Jay Hooker every time there’s a primary. However, I prefer to think of myself as libertarian.

Joe Five-Pack: John Jay Hooker…is that a porn name?

Rex: I’m afraid so.

novelvember?

I'm going to try to write a novel and I only mention it here so that it has a slightly better chance of actually happening than all of the other things I set out to do for an extended period of time and yet fail miserably at. I have a short attention span and often give up before I'm finished, and there's an attic full of half-built perpetual motion machines to prove it. Then there's the whole zombie making thing, but, seriously, it's a little too cold to be digging up graves now.

I'm not officially going to try to write it as a part of this thing that I saw over at Newscoma's place, as that might be too much of a commitment that I eventually prove myself uncommitted to, but I'll shoot for the goal of 175 pages.

I tried novel writing in much the same kamikaze fashion a few years back when I was living in Knoxville and had two weeks to kill between jobs but very little money with which to slay them. I had a stack of jazz CDs by the computer and the general outline of a plot and commenced to writing without ever looking back or allowing myself to edit much. I was in the zone, and my mind wandered into thoughts of actually selling the damn thing until I let myself to stop at page one hundred--roughly half the way through--and read what I had produced so far.

Jeez. Think of every embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you and then place it in a cannon and have someone shoot you in the gut with that cannon and you'll have an idea of just how awful that thing was. I'm always hard on myself when it comes to judging my creative offerings, but there is no doubt that the collection of words I assembled in those two weeks were not meant for this world. I think I destroyed all copies, but a part of me wakes up in a cold sweat sometimes gripped with the fear that it lurks in the attic among the half-built perpetual motion machines and that android that could feel pain for some reason.

Again, I'm not a science person.

Anyway, I knocked out a chapter last night but I have yet to go back and read it, so I guess I'll at least make it a couple of days into the month without giving up.

i really should invest in a calendar

After macing a gang of dwarf pirates I quickly slammed and locked the door, turned off all the lights, and then fixed myself another drink. I may have also screamed like a little girl, but the source of the shrill cry is still being debated. There frankly isn't enough evidence at the moment to attribute it to any one individual.

Anyway, I then remembered it was Halloween.

However, it occurs to me now that Halloween would be the perfect opportunity for the dwarf pirates to take over.