‘Twas the Saturday before Halloween, but for all intents and purposes it was Halloween for us, for this was the night we would dress up in disguises, and inhale alcoholic beverages until we acted like complete savages.

It was the afternoon, and the plan was to head to the Jefferson Valley Mall (Also known as ninth level of Hell), in search of Halloween costumes.

What were we to dress as you ask? Well the plan came to me simply the night before in a stroke of pure genius. The conversation went a little something like this …

Bryan: “Why don’t we all just be Guidos?”

Everyone else: “Guidos … yeah”

And that was that.

Who else has ever dressed up as a Guido for Halloween? The recipe for hilarity was swirling around in our heads as we contemplated some of the scenarios that we may encounter on this late Autumn night. Like, for instance:

Would real Guidos be offended if they saw four guys in costumes that resembled their everyday attire, or would they assume that we were apart of their brethren who were just “too cool” to dress up?

So that got us to thinking: “What do Guidos dress up as for Halloween”, and the answer fell upon a theory that seemed pretty realistic. Guidos are inherently born with only two options for a costume on Halloween.

No other options are acceptable because their feeble, hair gel soaked brains cannot fathom any thought of originality. And if a Guido did choose something other than one of these two costumes, it very well may cause a cataclysmic rift in the Guido community.

Establishing our theory was also part of a precautionary measure to be on the look out for any Gangsters or Pimps who seemed to be agitated by our attire and ready to bust some skulls.

Now that we were mentally prepared for the evening at hand it was time to enter the Jefferson Valley Mall in search of some Guido garb. The first and most essential accessory that came to mind were Nike head bands, the cornerstone of Guido gear.

So we headed to Foot Locker in search of headbands, little did we know the horrific turn of events that would ensue within the next few minutes of our fragile lives.

As we passed the food court and approached Foot Locker, we passed by one of those carts that’s sells T – Shirts that you can have your own face printed on with such phrases as “Momma’s Boy” or “Daddy’s Little Angel.”

Walking by the cart I could not help but notice there was a picture of a textbook Guido upon what seemed to be an enlarged Million Dollar Bill attached to the front of the cart. Whoever this Guido was, he wanted everyone to know that he was the King shit in Guidoville. His blowout was flawless, as if each spike was a receptor beckoning towards the skies and receiving divine messages from the Guido heavens like, “Buy this fuckin’ Armani shirt and some fuckin’ bitch will suck ya dick tonight.”

I could not pass by this spectacle without making mention of it to my friends because it was simply hilarious looking, and exemplified everything we wanted to embody in the costumes we were searching for.

So I stopped and pointed out the Million Dollar Guido Bill to my friends and we all stood there and pointed at it and laughed out loud for a couple of seconds. It wasn’t until seconds later that I first heard the horrible sound that will live with me forever.

“GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

We all heard it, but where was it coming from? As we walked a step further, we were shocked by the sight our eyes were showing us. The very Guido that was emblazoned upon the Million Dollar Bill was sitting right there in a chair working at the stand, very much aware of us having a laugh at his expense.

Lucky for us, Foot Locker was to our immediate left and we jetted in there in hope of escaping the Guido we had just made a mockery of. As my friends and I pretended to look at some jerseys, I saw the Guido approaching from our left and was terrified of the storm of “What the fuck’s?” and “You got a fuckin’ problem bro’s,” we were about to be assaulted with.

But no “What the fuck’s” would be mentioned, no not on this day, not by this Guido. Something far worse would roll off his 100 percent Italian lips.

Then he grabbed my shoulder and said …

“BOPPPPPPP!!!!!! Guhhhhh….. BOPPPPP!!! BOPPPPP!!! Guhhhhhh.. BOP! BOP! BOP!”

“What the fuck is going on,” I thought to myself. I replied back to him, “What are you talking about?” But he persisted.

“BOPPPP!!!! BOPP!!!! BOP!! Guhhhhhhhh Bop!!!!” and pointed towards the doorway as if he wanted us to follow him somewhere.

My friend Miles chimed in “What do you want us to do man?” as my other friend and Zubaz Web Guru J.J. Guaragno pretended he got an important call on his Blackberry and cowered away to the corner.

Then the Guido stormed off angrily because no one would follow him. We all looked at each other as if we had somehow survived a terrible storm on the Ocean but managed to keep our boat afloat.

Moments later, the Guido stormed back in, but this time he had brought two security guards with him. They approached Miles and asked, “What is going on here,” and Miles with a baffled expression on his face explained to the two guards, “We were just pointing and laughing at the picture of him on the stand, but we didn’t realize he was sitting right there.”

The Guards seemed pleased with our answer, and Miles asked if we should apologize.

One of the Guards answered back “No you don’t have to apologize, we could barely understand what the fuck he was saying to us … fucking retard.”

So it had seemed that before we had even gotten into our Guido gear, we had managed to offend a deaf and mute Guido. Before this day I had not even fathomed the thought of the existence of the possibility of there even being a deaf/mute Guido, or how a deaf/mute Guido might even come to be in the world. Life will throw you a curveball sometimes, I guess.

This event did not deter us in our quest for Guidoness, and we eventually found our Pink Polo’s, headbands, Armani shirts and sprayed on all the Axe body spray we could get out of the can and screamed such things as, “You fucked Angela didn’t you!” into the Halloween night.

But we all learned a very important lesson that day, do not point and laugh at a picture of someone with a blowout, you might just regret that shit.

What the fuck? Ehhhhhh …

Questions? Comments? Email me at Itsbyrne@hotmail.com or contact me on the forum.