This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
My oldest daughter tried to kill me on Halloween. She says it wasn't on purpose, but I know otherwise. She deliberately asked me to take her three children — two of whom are legitimately evil — trick-or-treating.
I agreed to do it. Why not? I was once the Western states' leading authority on home-invasion candy-gathering. Such was my prowess that experts interviewed me for my Halloween night secrets.
Me: "I took the Magic Marker from school."
Police: "And just where did you learn to spell the kinds of words you wrote all over Mrs. Finch's dog?"
Taking my grandkids trick-or-treating seemed a good way to pass on some of the fright night lore that had taken me years to acquire. This isn't the sort of stuff you want to take to your grave.
I warned the kids that this was would be real trick-or-treating. We weren't going to a few houses and calling it a night. We were going on a full-blown sugar safari.
Serious trick-or-treating involves being so focused on looting that you lose track of time and place. Some friends and I once trick-or-treated for six hours and wound up in a field within sight of the state prison.
Leon: "Where are we?"
Duncan: "Are those real cows?"
Me: "Oh, @&*#%!"
I came prepared Saturday night. Since I was technically in charge for once, I packed a flashlight, cellphone, Lortab, an ID bracelet, antacid and bail money.
Before we left the house, we paused for the requisite pictures and warning. My daughter told her kids to behave themselves, be safe, have fun, and not listen to a thing their grandfather said.
Within a block, I had convinced them otherwise. The only way to maximize one's haul was to eat candy along the way. That way there's more room in the sack. Therefore, the first rule of trick-or-treating was to not go home until you had thrown up at least twice.
Them: "Really? What else?"
Me: "Well, if the person handing out the candy is really old, you can knock them down and take it all. They won't chase you."
This was only partly true. If you're not paying close attention, the person handing out the candy might only be costumed as a geezer. I once saw a middle-age housewife chase Duncan down within a dozen yards and pummel him over a bowl of popcorn balls.
Finally, I explained that they shouldn't waste time on pranks or vandalism. Those things could be done any night of the year, whereas there was only one night when people gave out free candy. Writing on dogs cuts into important candy-gathering time.
Them: "Writing on dogs?"
Me: "Never mind. Let's go."
I have no idea how I survived the night. In four hours, my grandchildren covered all of Herriman, Riverton and most of South Jordan. I had to walk fast, then jog and finally crawl to keep up.
Next year, I'm teaching my grandkids about drive-by trick-or-treating.
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.