From the Annals of "My B*tch Can Beat Up yo' B*tch"

Trick-or-treaters around here usually include neighborhood kids and an influx of kids from Buffalo's 'less affluent' neighborhoods. Not that this is a problem by any means, but along with them come older teens with no costumes, and an even bigger chafe: twenty and thirty-something women holding out bags to fill.

Usually I give a handful of treats to the little ones and then a piece of candy to the aforementioned scavengers. My neighbor is less tolerant. While doling out the goods he'll take one look at a questionable costume and inquire, "What are you supposed to be?"

"A football player," responds the costumeless teen, holding a football.

"I don't think so. Get off my porch."

In years past I've had some sh*theel in a Barry White voice at my door scrutinizing the candy and inquiring, "You ain't got no chocolate? I don't like those."

[F*ck you, a**hole] "Nope. No chocolate."

Fortunately this year's trick-or-treaters were largely legit, with a couple of twenty/thirty-something heifers partaking in the festivities... which leads us to the highlight of the evening.

Mrs. Prego was out with the kids, along with our friend Nicole and her son. After a block or so their paths with some older heavy hitters on their cell phones telling their friend, "Yeah, we're in the rich neighborhood getting some good candy."

Things got a little heated after a while as these broads got a little aggro, shoving past kids and complaining. "Mother f*cker gave me pixie sticks. Probably got anthrax in it."

Meanwhile, Mrs. P did her best to ignore them, snapping pictures of our kids. After a while the heifers took exception to that. "Is she going to take pictures at every house?"

At the next house one of them mumbles to the other, "Hold on, it's picture time."

"Excuse me. Do you have a problem with me taking pictures of my children on Halloween?"

"I wasn't talking to you!" came the response.
"No, but you were talking about me."

After that I'm sure there was the typical posturing and "bitch" lobs that accompany such encounters and they parted ways without further incident.

As Mrs. P retold me the story I ask, "Was she bigger than you?"
"Much."

"Oooh. You don't tangle a**holes with the heavy hitters. She would have kicked your ass."

The missus is from South Buffalo Irish stock, but she grew up in the 'burbs so I doubt she's ever been in a physical altercation with anyone.

"There were other people around," she replied.

"Nicole?" I said. "She's scrawny."

It reminded me of the scene in Dazed and Confused when the Mike Newhouse character decides to stand up to drunk bully Clint at the kegger. He figures he can get one swing, theorizing that the onlookers would break up the fight before Clint delivers a painful reprisal.

The onlookers, much to the disappointment of Mike Newhouse, watched idly as Clint delivered an ass-kicking before anyone intervened. I have no doubt the missus would have suffered a similar fate.

Well, fortunately for Mrs. P it never came to that. I'm willing to wager that the 250 lb. sister would have wiped the sidewalk with the missus. I'd have to teach the boys to feed mommy through a straw and I'd have to wipe her ass for her.

On the plus side, if she ever 'vents' on me or throws one of her patented tirades because I didn't help her with the house work I could always pull the plug.

Just kidding. I'm proud of you, baby. You've got cojones.