• Mon, Oct 24 2011

My Own Slut-O-Ween: Ghosts of Halloween Past, The Slutty Version

Once upon time, in a hell far far away, I worked in a redneck bar. And no, it wasn’t a haggard little hole in the wall with a horse post out front. It was a two-story, 18-and-over, 1000-person capacity, mechanical bull wielding urban playland for those in touch with their hay-baleing hillbilly selves. The scene was complete with a wanna-be-badass Rockabilly general manager on a Harley, his secret girlfriend the triple E implants bar manager pushing the Megan Fox look-a-like envelope. Please see the far right in the Reindeer photo below… really. The real redneck bartender – obviously placed in the aforementioned photograph – felled trees by day, and, by night, doled out long shots of cheap bourbon to folks sporting John Deer and Carthartt paraphernalia. (Just to ratify the existence of this delusion, please feel free to visit their website.)

And then there was me: Oregon born and raised hippy liberal in desperate need of money in a new town/state/parallel universe.

Halloween in a venue of this caliber was a particular treasure. And given that I was broke and looking at November’s rent due date with a sense of impending doom, I did what any mid-20′s girl with a decent figure would do… I slutted up for the Halloween drunks to pay rent. Which is potentially only one step above being a pole dancer for the night, but that’s not the point here so I will casually side-step that argument.

And so, in my genius, I decided to dress up like an Indian (Native American, not Bollywood). Clever, right? Cowboys and Indians?!? Get it?!?! Ok, no one else cared about my clever either. Cleavage was the closest word they could find.

There was a tomahawk in there too, but I discovered quickly that tomahawks do not open beers, much to my chagrin. Those furry knee-high boots (that I borrowed from the fake triple-E boob bar manager because she has a shoe collection that includes these boots for non-Halloween activities….) had a beer cap popping tool tucked neatly at my knee, for opening Bud-Lite and Keystone for the pandering droves. Which sort of made me look like a ninja which made me feel better every time someone ordered a Jack and Coke from my chest.

The photo I do not have, sadly, is where the feathers in my hair got caught in the fake cobwebbing strung above my head, which somehow snagged liquor bottles on the top shelf of the bar and caused them to tumble down into the bottles in front, and the ones in front of those, and in front of those. And which I caught by fully body blocking the falling liquor bottles and was subsequently doused in a plethora of liquors that should not be mixed AND grenadine. I was a bloody drunk Indian by then end of the night.

But I had rent! And a few Southern Comfort confused cowboys waiting in the parking lot at 4am. But that’s what the bouncers are for.

The irony is that this was in fact not my only slutty costume of this job, but the others were not for Halloween and so I will merely share the photos and let you decipher their intended holiday origin:

This week, TheGloss is celebrating slut-o-ween and is accepting submissions about your own slut-o-ween costume. The best story will win a prize from TheGloss.

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