It’s Halloween and children will be marching the streets dressed like a bunch of fools pleading for candy. I never give the little fuckers any. I am yet to see one brilliant trick. It is safe to say that of all the useless inventions God made children are the George W. Bush of the presidents list.

Why do some people waste so much time being fascinated by the little terrors? I can only assume it is because it gives weaker people a chance to seem more powerful. Kids are dependent that must be the appeal.

I will never understand why people think it is hilarious when a child at a restaurant runs around like an idiot? Nor when said child runs head first into a table and begins to cry, why people stare at me like a freak when I break out into hysterics? Sure it’s funny when some black guy does it on TV, but heaven forbid you laugh at a child.

Children should be forbidden from socializing in society until they are able to pass a test that declares them fit to become part of it. Think how many freaks we wouldn’t have to deal with if this was in place? It sounds like a winner to me.

Anyway what I really want for Halloween are women to stop dressing up as angels, devils or nurses and put on some of these sexy superhero outfits. It just makes more sense.

Fuel my blog are having a competition where you can win $500 from snorgTees. To win this you have to be the most voted for blog. Good luck winning - it ends today. You have a chance if you have 600 friends who will vote for you by the end of the day.

The next 99 blogs get a free t-shirt. Turns out I'm on the list but I only get my shirt if I make this post. It doesn't say anything about posting on the last day... So send it to me.

I stand in front of the mirror. Naked. That is with the exception of the towel wrapped around my waist. I have just emerged from the shower. The room is layered in steam. My reflection is blurred beyond any form of recognition. Before I begin my daily grooming I need to see myself. Because that’s just the way we do it here on Earth.

I grad a facecloth and wipe down the mirror. There I am. Pale. Skinny. Flabby. Before I begin to floss I notice a hair on my chest. It is thick and wire like. Different from the rest of the hairs on my chest, which are thin and blonde. It is about an inch above my left nipple and I cannot stand it.

The only problem is it is very close to a mole. My mother always told me not to pluck hair growing from moles. I have never checked this with a professional (my mother is far from a doctor), however, I think I have heard this from several other sources: “If you pluck hair growing out of a mole it can cause the mole to become cancerous.”

I do not call a doctor to find out how valid this statement is. I simply convince myself, without thorough investigation, that the hair is growing next to the mole and is not part of it. With that I pluck it.

What was I hoping to achieve? That by convincing myself that it was not in the mole, God would take pity on me. “Well, Malcolm did pluck a hair from a mole but he thought it was growing next to it. Poor boy I guess under these circumstances I won’t give him cancer.”

Why would I potentially risk my life on such a foolish thing? It was a little hair. I could have looked properly at it. Maybe it was safe to pluck. I could have consulted someone first. The info I need is probably on Wikipeida. But instead I ignored everything and blindly decided to hope for the best. That is retarded.

I’m deep in thought. Is this woman the kind of girl who gets down on all fours and takes it like a porn star or is she the kind of girl that lies back and secretly looks at her watch while you are on top of her? I have no idea but it looks like the former. Then my contemplation is ruined by the devil himself.

“Hey, give me your stapler.” Giant Penis is standing at my desk.

No please or anything, he just demands it as if I am his well-groomed labradoodle that sits in the corner all day licking my balls, waiting for my masters voice so I can jump to attention.

I hate Giant Penis. The last time I lent him a stapler I never got it back. I had to steal this one from Quiet Indian Guy in order to get my work done. I probably wouldn’t give a fuck if I didn’t hate Giant Penis so much… but I do. He’s always treated me like shit but then again he treats everyone like shit. He just happens to treat me like shit to my face.

“Hello, Malcolm. Pass me the stapler.” He’s got a long-term girlfriend. I’ve heard him on the phone with her. He sounds like a castrato, with his sudden soft-spoken voice and reliance on cutesy nouns and adjectives. Yet he’s always talking to the other guys about the babe he banged over the weekend. Plus I walked in on him at an office party in the middle of a session with an office intern.

She was a stunner. She looked like Lischen Botes with short black hair. I remember seeing her pert breasts exposed with her legs spread sitting over the copier. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t masturbated over the metal impression it left, replacing Giant Penis with myself. P.S I don’t refer to Giant Penis as Giant Penis because I saw his equipment, it’s simply because he’s a royal dick. He does probably have a much bigger penis than me though because that’s how God works.

“Malcolm are you retarded? Stapler!” I have had enough of his crap. I grab the stapler and jump up.

“Do you want the fucking stapler?” In a fit of rage I grab Giant Penis and slam his head onto my desk. Weeks of work scatters around the cubicle. My Daredevil action figure veers towards the edge and takes a giant leap of faith towards the floor. I spread the stapler wide open, like Giant Penis probably did to that intern, and I begin to slam it into his skull. It’s kind of strange when you ram a stapler into someone’s head. You are obviously expecting the staples to do the damage (who the hell knows why?) but they are too small to harm him. They just bounce off his skull like bullets to Superman. At the same time though the heavy metal structure of the stapler is causing serious damage. The dents in his skull are becoming bigger with each pounding and little staples are shooting off like woodchips.

Maybe in a few minutes my body will cool down and I will think logically. I will look at the blood and then possibly consider the consequences of my actions. I’ll probably cry like a baby and turn around and see the rest of the office staring at me like some kind of freak. And The Russian? She’ll never want me now. Not that she wanted me before but why would she want a psycho.

Then again maybe she likes bad boys. On seeing my alter ego she’d fall madly for me. She would visit me in prison and we’d have crazy conjugal visits. Or maybe she’ll grab my hand now and help me escape. We can move over to the Caribbean or back to South Africa and have a sex filled life on the run.

“Malcolm, the stapler!” Giant penis interrupts my fantasy. I pass him the stapler. I hate myself. I can only hope that Quite Indian Guy one day decides to snap and show Giant Penis what a stapler is really all about.

Seriously, I am sick of coming across peoples blogs with calendars in the sidebar. What the hell are you trying to prove? Do you think people randomly surf the web unaware of the date?

I can see it now Cyborg Boy wakes up and screams, “Oh my God!” I have no idea what day it is I better go check out Fracas’ blog with the calendar, while I’m there I can catch up on her latest gossip. Oh boy!”

No, no, no this is not going to happen. Wake up and smell the gasoline. People get their daily fix of ‘the date’ from other sources. There’s the good old-fashioned calendar that they stick up on their refrigerator, they’re bound to check there before your blog. Then there’s the mass media, the daily newspaper or television, they’re bound to check there before your blog.

But hey lets just say someone doesn’t use any of those? Maybe then they’ll go check out your blog? So Mr. Whoeverthehell sits down at his computer is about to go to your blog to check out the date and then suddenly…

He realises that a calendar is a standard built in feature on his computer. Yes, that’s right, the very computer people use to go see your blog already has a calendar built in. So stop wasting space in your sidebar and get rid of that stupid calendar. Why not put something useful there like a slideshow of cats or half naked ladies.

Yesterday (I may have been stoned) I was slumped in my blue sofa wearing only a pair of South Park boxers that are way to small for me (note to self buy new underwear). In my emancipated state I watched on in ore drooling slightly out my mouth as my left hand operated the remote independent of my brain.

It was through this process of channel surfing that I stumbled upon a pro-life activist preaching his mantra. Which brings me to my point: pro-life/pro-choice. I’m not talking about the debate between the two. I’m obviously pro-choice, the very notion of being saddled with a raucous parasite for the rest of my life because a tiny latex barrier could no longer take the pressure is simply too daunting for me. The very thought of it gives my sympathy to anyone trying to raise the legal abortion period up to 18 months. But that is beside the point.

What really intrigues me about this little quarrel is the wonder of spin. Yes in life we’ll spin anything. This is not some new development cooked up by modern politicians and corporations. Spin has bee around as long as language itself and the topic of abortion has two of the best-known spin slogans in the world. The first is obvious, most people will of course say that they are pro life because what is a world without life? Of course with most spin the sword is double edged and by labeling ones camp as pro-life you also label your enemy pro-death. The irony in this little dilemma is that most people who are pro-life are pro-the-death penalty. Apparently it’s all right to kill as long as the subject has already developed into adulthood.

The pro-choice movement on the other hand, now that is a true accomplishment of spin. Already labeled as pro-death they turned the tables and made it all about choice. Great move, who doesn’t like to choose? After all variety is the spice of life. Hell it’s the very corner stone of democracy.

Anyway, while watching a chubby southerner bumble on about the two, I had a thought: What about a movement that both would surely be against? Yes, how about the “end- famine” takes on abortion. It would be helmed by the worst politician ever. Also a southerner and he shall be called, Morgan Saunders. Here is an interview between Morgan Saunders and Ryan Seacrest (because after the Emmys celebrities stopped talking to him) where Morgan explains his take on the abortion debate.

Ryan Seacrest: I’d like to pressure you for an answer here Mr. Saunders and ask you what’s you’re position on abortion? Pro-life or pro-choice?

Morgan Saunders: Neither.

RS: Neither? I don’t understand?

MS: Well son you see, when it comes to abortion I’m “end-famine”.

RS: End-famine? Mr. Saunders I’m very confused by your response and I’ve had to interview Jessica Simpson before. Could you please explain?

MS: Well abortion is just downright wrong. Do we really want to give the choice to terminate valuable resources to a bunch of young whores who were not smart enough to abstain from sex.

RS: So then you’re pro-life?

MS: No I’m end-famine. Have you ever seen a baby Mr. Seacrest.

RS: To be honest, no I haven’t. For some reason nobody I know who has a baby will let me near it.

MS: Well, a baby is roughly the size of a chicken. Do you realize how many abortions we have in this country, 1.37 million. That’s like throwing away 1.37 million chickens each year, simply because some hooker doesn’t want to look fat for nine months. Millions are starving in Africa. Do you know how much 1.37 million chickens would help in the battle against famine?

RS: So you’re saying that you would give all the unaborted babies to Africa to eat?

MS: No that’s not what I’m saying don’t miss-quote me. I’m saying that I would use the unaborted babies to end famine in Africa.

RS: Well, thank you for your time Mr. Saunders and since I’m fairly certain you will never be interviewed again, goodbye forever. Seacrest out.

Well, I think it’s safe to say that if Morgan Saunders weren’t fictional he’d still never become president.