Halloween Costumes That Incorporate Your Colostomy Bag

Last Updated on September 17, 2025 by Michael

So here’s the situation. You’ve got a colostomy bag. Halloween’s coming. And every costume guide on the internet is pretending you don’t exist.

Well, screw that.

Your bag is about to become the greatest Halloween prop that money literally cannot buy. Kevin from accounting with his inflatable T-Rex costume? Please. That man peaked at Spirit Halloween. You? You’re about to peak at life.

The Classic “Kangaroo With a Really Weird Pouch” Look

Fun fact: Not a single person at your Halloween party has a degree in marsupial anatomy.

Not. One.

Which means you can slap on some brown fuzzy ears from the dollar store, safety-pin a tail to your ass, and suddenly you’re a kangaroo. When Jennifer from HR inevitably points out that pouches don’t go there, just stare at her. Long, uncomfortable pause. Then hit her with: “This is actually a Northwestern Albanian Mountain Kangaroo. Very rare. Netflix won’t even document them because of the lawsuit.”

There was no lawsuit. Northwestern Albania doesn’t have kangaroos. Jennifer doesn’t need to know this.

Throughout the night, reach near your bag and pull out increasingly deranged items. A single AA battery. A photo of Guy Fieri from 2003. A smaller, sadder kangaroo costume. A handwritten note that just says “Thursday.” Never explain anything. If someone asks, just whisper “marsupial stuff” and walk away.

Beer Belly But Make It Fashion

This is your moment to embody every uncle at every barbecue who’s ever said “working hard or hardly working?” You’re not just wearing a bag. You’re carrying on a tradition of men who peaked in 1987.

The “Alien Chest Burster” Experience

Remember when Alien came out and traumatized an entire generation? Time to pay it forward.

Black outfit. Some green slime (or maple syrup with food coloring if you’re broke – the smell adds to the horror). Get a baby doll hand. Or a Barbie hand. Or honestly, a rubber glove filled with cottage cheese. The point isn’t accuracy. The point is making Brad from sales question his life choices.

But here’s what separates good from legendary: the timing. Don’t burst during obvious moments. Wait. Specifically wait until someone’s explaining their cryptocurrency portfolio. Mid-Bitcoin explanation: “AGHHHHH IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN! THE PROPHECY!”

What prophecy? Doesn’t matter. Brad’s already running.

Smuggler Extraordinaire

That bag? Premium contraband storage that customs hasn’t figured out yet.

Walk with the confidence of someone who’s definitely not smuggling 47 fun-size Snickers. Draw a treasure map directly on the bag with Sharpie. X marks the spot. When people ask what you’re smuggling, lean in close. Real close. Whisper “soup.” Then immediately scream “YOU’RE NOT WEARING A WIRE, ARE YOU?”

It’s a Halloween party in Ohio. Nobody’s wearing a wire. But that’s not the point.

Develop three different limps throughout the night. Claim you can’t enter certain rooms because of “what happened in Buenos Aires.” You’ve never been to Buenos Aires. You can’t even spell Buenos Aires without autocorrect. Commit anyway.

The Superhero Nobody Asked For

Captain Colostomy: Because Marvel’s Getting Desperate

Every superhero needs an origin story. Yours? Aggressively mundane. No radioactive spiders. No dead parents. Just a Tuesday, decent insurance, and a surgeon named Keith.

Your superpower changes every time someone asks. First, it’s “detecting lies” (watch everyone get nervous). Then it’s “communicating with pigeons, but only about interest rates.” By midnight you’re claiming you can smell colors but only the warm ones.

Dr. Regular Bowels is your nemesis. He’s not at the party, obviously, but you keep checking behind furniture for him. Grab random people throughout the night. Whisper urgently: “If you see someone dressed as a probiotic yogurt, RUN.”

Cape’s mandatory but make it weird. Safety pin it slightly off-center. When someone points this out, panic visibly. Claim your “equilibrium is off because Mercury’s in microwave.”

That’s not what Mercury in retrograde means.

Perfect.

Pregnant Alien (Or: How to Stop Small Talk Forever)

Eight months along with something that definitely violates the Geneva Convention.

Green face paint, but applied like you sneezed mid-application. One antenna is clearly a toilet brush. The other? A pool noodle you cut too short. This isn’t about looking good. This is about commitment to looking committed.

Rub your bag tenderly while discussing “cravings.” Antifreeze and copper wire, mostly. Sometimes drywall, but only the asbestos kind. Carry ultrasound photos that are obviously just Google images of rotisserie chickens. Show everyone. Cry a little. Name the chicken Bartholomew. Or Jessica. Or Chicken.

When someone congratulates you, look confused. “Congratulate? This is a parasite.”

Watch them try to figure out if you’re joking.

(You’re not sure either.)

The “Fanny Pack Gone Wrong” Tourist

You know what’s scarier than any horror movie? Americans abroad.

Take photos of everything. Someone’s shoe. A lamp. Your own hand. The inside of your mouth. Claim it’s all “for the blog.” The blog doesn’t exist. The blog will never exist. When pressed for the URL, panic and say it’s “on the dark web.”

Professional Moonshiner

Prohibition ended in 1933. You didn’t get the memo.

Overalls with exactly one strap fastened. This isn’t fashion. This is moonshine federal law, established during the great corn liquor uprising of 1887. (There was no uprising. Commit to the lie.)

Your bag? Mobile distillery. The feds want it shut down. That guy dressed as a hot dog? Fed. The kid asking for candy? Deep cover fed. The actual off-duty cop at the party? Probably cool, actually.

Carry mason jars filled with increasingly suspicious liquids. Apple juice. Pickle brine. Something purple that you claim “ain’t ready yet.” Guard them like state secrets.

The Cyborg Who’s Trying Their Best

40% human, 60% machine, 100% confused about human customs.

Aluminum foil everywhere except one random body part. Like your entire right shin. That’s “the last human part.” When people ask about it, look sad. “It’s all that’s left of Bradley.”

Who’s Bradley?

You were Bradley.

Before… the upgrade.

Emergency Preparedness Expert

The world’s ending eventually. Might as well dress for it.

That bag? Part of an intricate survival system you’ve been perfecting since Y2K. Which you also survived, barely. Cover it in carabiners that connect to nothing. A compass that points to magnetic north (useless indoors). A whistle you blow every time someone says “costume.”

The “Plot Twist” Pregnancy

You know what? Sometimes a section only needs two paragraphs to land the joke.

Maternity wear from 1994. Ultrasound photos of a burrito supreme. The audacity to act offended when people don’t immediately get it.

Tips for Maximum Impact

Look, here’s the truth nobody wants to admit: Halloween is 90% confidence, 10% costume, and 100% making everyone else uncomfortable with your commitment to the bit.

You want to be remembered? Don’t just wear your costume. Become it. That means developing a walk that makes no anatomical sense. Like you’re always stepping over invisible lasers. Or walking through invisible peanut butter. When questioned, blame “the incident.” Never, ever explain the incident. But reference it constantly. “Haven’t been the same since the incident.” “Doctor says it’s incident-related.” “The incident changed everything.”

Find the other people with medical equipment. Don’t talk to them. Just point at each other across the room all night. Knowing nods. Secret hand signals. Make everyone think there’s a conspiracy. There isn’t. Or is there?

Someone’s going to ask inappropriate questions about your bag because people have the social skills of caffeinated squirrels. Have responses ready that make them regret consciousness. “Oh this? It’s where I keep my backup personality. Yours looks like it could use replacing too.”

Too harsh? Not harsh enough. This is Halloween. Emotional violence is the point.

The Bottom Line

Every October, thousands of people panic about costumes while you’re sitting there with built-in special effects that insurance already paid for.

You could hide it. You could work around it. You could pretend it doesn’t exist.

Or.

OR.

You could traumatize every single person at that party with your dedication to turning medical equipment into performance art. You could make kids cry (from laughter) (or fear) (both work). You could become the person everyone’s still talking about at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and possibly in therapy.

Your bag isn’t a limitation. It’s everyone else’s problem that they don’t have one.

Now get out there and ruin someone’s night with your commitment to absurdist comedy. That’s what Halloween’s really about.