I Hate Halloween

It’s not a cookie. It’s a biscuit.
It’s not candy. It’s a lolly.
It’s not a butt. It’s a bum.

It’s not a diaper. It’s a nappy.

It’s not 911. It’s 000.

It’s not a thong. It’s a g-string.

They’re not flip flops. They’re thongs.

It’s not wait up. It’s wait for me.

It’s not zee. It’s zed.

It’s not soda. It’s soft drink.

It’s not math. It’s maths.

It’s not take out. It’s take away.

It’s not a cupcake. It’s a patty cake.

It’s not gas. It’s petrol.

It’s not taking out the trash. It’s putting the bloody rubbish out.

It’s not poop and pee. It’s poo and wee.

They’re not sweatpants. They’re tracky dacks.

It’s not mooning. It’s a brown eye.

They’re not bugs. They’re insects.


And it’s not fucking Halloween. It’s October 31st.


I’m not pissed. I’m pissed off.

I’m not done. I’m finished.

Full stop. Not period.

And don’t tell me what to do. You’re not mum. Not mom.

You can shove your ‘but multiculturalism’ up your arse. Not ass.


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