The Dick Isn’t in the Box

So, let’s say that it’s Halloween, you’re straight guy who’s kind of an idiot, and you need a costume – fast. In 1998, you’d bust out the horn-rims and the tooth-blackener and suck in public as Austin Powers. In old ’06, you’d smear on a ‘stache and jabber about sexy-time. So in 2007, what’s the best costume strategy for the dude who isn’t especially funny himself but is still by-God determined to have something to do with comedy?

Easy. Stick your dick in a box.

Or at least pretend to. Dragged to the Granfalloon Saturday, I caught no fewer than half a dozen joiners giving their junk the ribbon-and-bow treatment from last year’s memorable Saturday Night Live bit. Unlike JT, these guys weren’t getting anywhere. In fact, most of the women they talked into opening the lids asked for gift receipts.

“That’s pretty disappointing,” a lady friend complained after peeking inside one tuxed-out shmoe’s present. His contents: a Twinkie. Once he’d stumbled off, a blonde at the bar dished, “It’s a Twinkie here, but in real life, he’s packing a Zinger.”

Other boxes yielded dildos or – in the case of one especially unimaginative lawyer- absolutely nothing at all. Nobody had the wit to go with a Ding Dong or a even picture of Nixon. One lazy guy didn’t even bother with the gift wrap, opting instead to tie an empty case of Miller Genuine Draft to his crotch – perfect for pledge week, maybe, but hardly effective with the Plaza hotties he kept trying to chat up.

At one point, two dick-in-a-box guys happened to find themselves waiting together at the bar. They glared at each other, for a second, probably wondering who was copying whom. Then they looked away, at the floor or the tumultuous crowd, both a little shaken: They’d seen the douche and the douche was them. – Alan Scherstuhl