slutty slut.

It's not Halloween, but it might as well be. It's the Saturday before, and the college kids of Wilmington are using tonight to celebrate by coming out in costumes of various levels of cleverness. I look around and realize that most of the girls my age are using the evening as an excuse to wear shamefully little. Apparently, Halloween is an opportunity to take a regular costume and make it slutty. When you can't think of anything clever, showing your breasts will have to do. Josh and I are calling out the costumes to each other as we see them.

"Look, slutty cowgirl."

"There's a slutty stock car driver."

"Slutty Rainbow Brite, eleven o'clock."

"Is that who that is? I thought it was Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Dream Slut."

"Slutty nurse in the corner, talking to Maverick."

"Check out the slutty flight attendant."

"What about the girl next to her? Who is she supposed to be?"

"I don't know. Something slutty."

"There's a slutty Dorothy. I think I'll be slutty Toto next year."

A girl walks in wearing what appears to be her underwear. We both stop and gawk: mostly likely, her intention.

"Slutty...slut?" Josh suggests.

By that time, we've run out of actual costumes and are just suggesting possible costumes that a girl could make promiscuous. We try to outdo each other by coming up with costumes that are as anti-slut as possible.

"Slutty Beethoven."

"Slutty grim reaper."

"Slutty Joan of Arc."

"Slutty rabbi."

"Slutty George Washington."

"Slutty smurfs."

"Slutty Fidel Castro."

"Slutty Darth Vader."

"Slutty Santa."

We run through a slew of possibilities before we get tired of the game, having exhausted the possibilities. We've turned our attention elsewhere, when in walks a girl in tiny green shorts, a plastic shell on her back, and a purple eye mask painted on her face. We turn to each other and, in our excitement, much too loudly proclaim "Slutty ninja turtle!".

We never even thought of that.