So last night I’m taking Minnie Mouse’s picture with a nice person giving out candy and suddenly I have the urge to take a picture for Cathy and BusyMom. Supergirl and the Slut Friends came running up as I was taking Minnie Mouse’s picture. The buxom superhero was having trouble slowing down because her secret weapon, bulbus breasts, obviously kept her off balance. Her identity is kept secret by the glaring cleavage protruding from her plasticized costume; not a mortal man can possibly make eye contact with her!
Suddenly a battle of good versus evil rages within me. My finger is on the shutter button of the camera. It is ready to fire. I merely need to raise the lense a few inches and push the button. Supergirl and the Slut Friends are moving like coke fiends at an 80s party hosted by a Columbian drug lord. They move almost in a blur in their mission to pillage as much chocolate and sugar as possible to fuel their teen metabolisms. The decent people of this nice, upper-middle class neighborhood laugh and talk with their friends in lawn chairs on their porches surrounded by professionally landscaped yards. How will they judge me if I take the picture! I visualize the light merriment of the neighborhood changing to anger as clouds billow over, the houses take sharp angled Tim Burtonesque shapes as thunder roars and beers are dropped for pitchforks and torches, and the adults chant "pervert! pedophile!" I might get away with taking the picture; afterall, I am showing my horns.
Supergirl is first to reach the candy bucket at the porch. As she leans forward to grab some treats right in front of me I am sudden aware that it is colder outside than I originally assessed. Happy doesn’t appropriately describe the jolly superteen. "Perky" would be far more apropos. Snap the picture! As a parent, I am thinking a plasticized, hard shell of a costume probably was not her best choice. Perhaps something more form fitting. And a bra. Or two.
In the end I could not bring myself to take the picture. I would not want to give the FBI anything that could be construed as child porn. Of course, as we approach the next house, one woman and five or six beer guzzling men are guffawing and talking about Supergirl’s boobs.
