This Halloween, I’m going to go as Eighties Guy. I’ll enjoy tiny expensive meals, suits made of seals, rough sex and making business deals, I’ll smell of money and patent leather shoes, cause I’m Eighties Guy.

I’ll wake up in the morning and go to the gym. I’ll work out in multi-coloured sweats and a wife-beater vest with arm-holes so big, and a head-hole so low, that it barely covers my gleaming, coconut oiled body. I’ll have a sweat patch that delineates my awesome eighties muscles, the muscles on my arms will be all slick but the sweat won’t go anywhere near my crotch or my ass, I won’t sweat there, eighties guys don’t sweat below the waist. Then I’ll have a shower, but there will be no water, because eighties guys like to shower in steam-only showers, and then afterwards, I’ll shave my face so close that it will shine in the noon-day sun. And then I’ll use after-shave, because I’m Eighties Guy.

After I’ve worked out and bathed, I’ll put on my Power Suit, and it will be made solely of shoulder pads and pinstripes. I shall carry around a briefcase full of papers about merging and takeovers and other big eighties words for Corporate Devilry. I will walk really fast in a crowd of people that look exactly like me, on a street that looks suspiciously like New York but the camera will find me, and my perfectly gelled hair, because I’m Eighties Guy.

At the office I’ll flirt with all the women with big hair, but not the fat one NEVER THE FAT ONE, being fat in the eighties in an abomination. I will work on my tiny computer and my giant phone. I will say things like “You asshole! Put the deal through or I’ll smoke you” and I’ll slam my LAND LINE phone down really hard, and then stand up and look out at the sunset through the wall-to-ceiling windows from my corner office in a sky scraper, and put my hands in my pockets, because I’m Eighties Guy.

Later on that night, I will drink my protein shake, and then have a scallop with dressing made from eagle blood, but it won’t be on the scallop, inexplicably, it will be drizzled the side of my giant plate, and I won’t dip my scallop into the dressing because that would be gauche, and people in the eighties aren’t gauche unless you’re New Jersey Eighties Guy (or NJ Nineties Guy, or NJ Noughties Guy). But I’m not that guy, I’m Eighties Guy.

After the restaurant, I’ll hit the club where all the women are dressed as brightly coloured triangles, and I’ll loosen my ruby-red silk tie, and one of the triangles will offer me cocaine, and then I will lose a whole section of my life because suddenly, I will be part of a sexy sex scene where the light in my apartment is blue for some inexplicable reason, and the triangle and I will have backlit sex to the saxophone solo on Gerry Rafferty’s ‘Baker Street’, and I’ll finger-gun the mirror I am looking into while I have sex.
Cause I’m Eighties Guy, and I do what I want.

 

 

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN POLE SMOKERS.