Gosh, You’re So Boring, Mr. McGee

For Mr. McGee, being a buzzkill is only his way of avenging his past. But what happens when his Halloween takes a turn?

Reading Time: 4 minutes

Mr. McGee sits and stares down his porch. “Oh, the humanity,” he thinks as he watches the neighborhood delinquents skate by on their skaters and scootboards. He’s always hated the neighborhood youth for engaging in youthful activities. He sits on his elevated porch smoking the same cigar he seems to have been smoking for the past 40-odd years.

Alas, Halloween approaches Mr. McGee at full speed, and he has nowhere to hide. The autumnal-toned decor of orange-leaved wreaths, ghastly skeletal lawn inserts, and absolutely scream-inducing vinyl ghost banners materialize around his small town. He is filled with such utter disgust. Those vinyl banners were used to shield his vision while a perpetrator nabbed his candy stash all those years ago. A horrid shadowy figure dressed up as Ronald McDonald did the nabbing, haphazardly covered in a great many warm-toned leaves for dramatic effect. Ever since the tender age of 17, Mr. McGee has despised Halloween and all its subscribers.

As Mr. McGee tours his local pharmacy, Value Depot, in search of an off-brand arthritis medication (of course he’s not paying full price, who do you think he is?), he finds the candy aisle. “Oh, the horror,” he thinks. He almost projectile vomits across the fun-sized Snickers shelf.

However, Mr. McGee thinks of a devious plan. Instead of egging the trick-or-treaters when they float to his doorstep as he usually does on Hallow’s Eve, he shall destroy the souls of the youth even more violently: through despicable sweets, more trick than treat.

Mr. McGee scrams out of the Value Depot and hops in his 2002 Honda Accord, speeding down the service road at a whopping 35 miles per hour. He screeches into the parking lot of Everything’s Small, the store where everything is small, and picks up 50 units of comically small toothbrushes and comically small packages of carrots. “Oh, this’ll get ’em this time,” Mr. McGee thinks. As McGee checks out, he sees comically small toothpaste tubes and proceeds to buy 50 of those as well.

On the fateful eve, Mr. McGee gets into position. The naïve youngins waddle unstably to his bland oak door and ring the doorbell.

“Trick-or-treat!” they say cheerily yet monotonously, like a cult chant.

Mr. McGee resists the urge to grab his dozen eggs and instead, grabs the bowl next to his door.

The parents of the youthful beings, having some semblance of decency, had forced their poor children to approach the mangled steps of Mr. McGee’s ancient home.
“Here you go, children,” Mr. McGee says with a maniacal grin on his face.

As the children peek into what maleficent goodies Mr. McGee has provided them with, they cry.

“But why must you be so boring, Mr. McGee?” they whimper as they make their way down his porch.

Mr. McGee simply laughs and slams his door. He sits down in his decades-old La-Z-Boy recliner and relishes in his pride. The sheer confidence boost he gets every year is unimaginable. He could very well be a real-life Jack Skellington, but he’s not that charismatic, as you can probably tell. Nevertheless, his goal of putting a damper on Halloween, even minutely, has succeeded. Oh, Mr. McGee, the pain and torment you cause.

Before Mr. McGee can consider his job complete, his Monk marathon on Hallmark Murders & Mysteries is rudely interrupted. He erupts out of his chair with a fright as his doorbell rings. Mr. McGee walks to the door, but before he can even register who is there, at least a dozen eggs make their way past his doorframe, covering his face and nearby furniture evenly in unborn chickens.

“Have you… have you just egged me?!” he screams into the abyss of the neighborhood road. The perpetrators simply run away, knowing full well that Mr. McGee cannot reach them even with his off-brand arthritis medication.

Mr. McGee needs a new plan. This was the first time any soul had ever revolted against this torment. He looks at his wrinkly skin, droopy eyes, and clotted veins and decides it’s time for a change of pace. He packs up his one suitcase he’s had since 1927 and heads on out the door, egg-in-face. Mr. McGee immediately sprints at a whopping two miles per hour all the way to Johnny Johnson’s house, for he is absolutely certain that Johnny was the wretched child who dared to disturb his tranquil cruelty. Expecting Johnny Johnson to be at the door, as the door opens, Johnny Johnson’s father, Johnson Johnson, appears.

“Johnson, is that you?”

“McGee, oh how lovely it is to see you! Could I get you somethi—”

Before Johnson even finishes his question, Mr. McGee puts two and two together. Seeing the tattered leaf-covered Ronald McDonald costume behind Johnson, Mr. McGee throws the five eggs he put in his pocket at Johnson. It was Johnson who mugged him all those years ago. Johnson was Mr. McGee’s supposed best friend, yet he had betrayed him. All over an overwhelming proportion of Charleston Chews.

“The true horror, my friend, is standing right in front of me.”

With that, Mr. McGee slowly pivots his now-slimy polished Oxfords and hobbles down the road, feeling like Vin Diesel and Dwayne Johnson wrapped up into one medically unstable individual. Johnson’s lawn flamingos catch on fire from a nearby neighbor tripping while trying to light a cigarette, and Mr. McGee has an epic explosion to walk away from while looking straight at a nonexistent camera. McGee is now cured of his urge to only cause problems, for he has gotten his truest revenge.

In Memory of Mr. McGee, 1921-2021.