Just when I thought it was safe. This Halloween weekend, “The Blair Witch Project” was released in the U.K., and the movie-hypers have been out in full force. It seems the film-making industry has decided to use the American market as a testing ground to decide exactly how many promotional campaigns are too many and roughly triple the amount for release abroad.

Every show even remotely related to the celebrity and entertainment news genre has devoted countless hours to the film.

Of course, they all say the same things over and over again: “This low budget film proves that money doesn’t grow on trees, little crudely made stick men do, and that’s all it takes to make a good movie.

“The amazing thing about this movie is that the actors and crew were paid in clothespins and cockleburs, allowing it to become the most profitable film of all time.

“The cast were allowed only a starvation diet and were forced to endure nearly 24 hour work days. The directors attribute their labor management skills to the examples set by clothing industry giants Nike and Kathy Lee.”

Fortunately, I missed the brunt of the “Star Wars” propaganda. I don’t know that I could have handled another round of the little boy telling people how George Lucas inspired him to reach new heights in his acting career.

I’m sure the only height young Anakin reached while on set was somewhere in the neighborhood of 4 feet, 8 inches. Fortunately for him, he can rest assured that there will be a place for him at sci-fi conventions until the end of time.

Years from now, dozens will stand in line to get a signed copy of his autobiography, “How I Conquered Alcoholism with Jedi Mind Tricks.”

My roommates and I managed to accumulate a R2 figurine and two Darth Maul busts from our cereal boxes before everything from that round of Hollywood chaos settled. Now, we’re waiting for bloody bundles of sticks lined with flannel shirts and human entrails to land in our milk first thing in the morning.

This summer I went to see the witch movie with a friend, Harry. Harry asked me if I wanted to see it, and I say sure.

Then I learned that four or five rather young high school sophomore girls were going to be accompanying us.

I caught on that I was to be the legitimizing presence for the outing, though Harry will never admit it, and I would also deflect a few of the glances such an entourage was certain to attract.

All fine and well. I can handle it.

We watched the movie then made our way back towards home to drop the girls off at their slumber party. They were scared after the show, but violating every rule in the Sexual Predator’s Handbook, we left them to sort it out for themselves.

Harry and I were just about to go our separate ways when we came to the conclusion that the girls could probably use a visit from the Blair Warlocks. After a hundred or so sticks, a torn shirt, some Aunt Jemima and red-dye blood and a half-hour, we made our return to the party house. I deposited the satchel on the doorstep and army-crawled my way back to the car bringing us full circle to the gut-laden, cereal-box prize.

We didn’t think much more of it that night, but I guess they saw the poorly constructed movie prop and freaked out. Last I heard, they still wouldn’t give Harry the time of day.

Here’s how I tie it all together. Whether you’re in the United States or the United Kingdom, scaring people is fun and profitable. Especially if you can live on clothespins and cockleburs.

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Chris Crouch is a sophomore in political science from Rapid City, Ill.