As I write this, I am in the basement of the house with my lights off.
I’m sick of giving kids candy, and I don’t care anymore.
These little butt-guzzlers have been ringing my doorbell all night long, and I’ve been whipping Kit-Kats at them like I was an ill-tempered Sandy Koufax. I mean, for crying out loud, I’m trying to get some work done in here! Like I don’t have better things to do than to toss some little princess or Sith lord an undersized packet of Skittles. I would just as well spoonfeed BBQ sauce to a malnourished walrus.
So now I’m down in the dark, dank basement huddled over the glow of this computer’s monitor, and sucking the remaining flavor out of a chunk of jerkeyed meat that long ago lost its tang. I am wearing sweatpants and muttering obscenities towards a man named Seth whose existence is unlikely. I have made no effort to stop the jerky-drool that is collecting on my desk, for to do so would be an affront to the Jerkeymaster (i.e. Seth). My elbows feel dry. My hair is bushy and unkempt. My dreams lay about me in ruin.
Merry Halloween everybody.
Sad Peter….just sad.
I ran out of candy last night, so I just started passing out fifths of hard liquor.
There were ramifications.
What were the ramifications?
i answered the door holding a chainsaw. a kid told me “you’re not supposed to have the chain on there” so i responded “how do you think i’m going to cut through your flesh.” he ran away crying, but at least i didn’t have to give that punk candy.
We did not turn our front light on, and succeeded in avoiding
the task of passing out candy to even one dressed-up child.
We didn’t have candy either, but we discussed handing out
plastic bags instead, since we had them.