Pumpkins remain a mystery to me
The pumpkin has always been a mystery to me. Pumpkins make their appearance almost always just once a year. And given our behavior, I can’t really blame them for their short appearance. We invite them into our houses and then we take a knife and stab them over and over again, sculpting teeth and eyes out of this hulk. Then we scoop out their brains and insides. And if that wasn’t enough, some people even light them on fire, placing a candle inside their cavity.
But I’ve learned the pumpkin is a patient creature. It will wait like a spider in the weeds; quite frankly, I don’t know what that means. The only spiders I’ve ever seen are pretty visible, scaring the eyeballs right out of your head. There are no weeds and there is no waiting.
Anyway, a pumpkin will hang around looking pleasant and innocent. Sometimes it will flatter you like Eddie Haskell on “Leave It To Beaver,” until one day a stench, the likes of which would make any innocent person fall to their knees begging for mercy, emerges as a final vengeance. This brilliant orange pumpkin will decay into a mass of protoplasm foaming over your front lawn until it takes on a life of its own. It will send off enough noxious gases that not even the government would consider taking your property under any kind of eminent domain action.
So overwhelming is this affront that the postal service will demand that you use a post office box, since every mailman on your route has been hospitalized with post-traumatic stress disorder. Delivery men have run out of masks, and insurance doesn’t cover the muscle pulls and back injuries incurred from sprinting or staggering to their trucks.
This is no aroma of gingersnaps or apple cider, but rather a decaying mass, one that probably wiped out the Roman Empire. You are in danger of your property being declared a no-fly zone. Airlines have to be rerouted to other states, since the smell of decay is so strong, all engines will stop suddenly, coughing and choking back (expletive deleted) to the control tower.
Oh sure, it always starts off with good intentions, at least for me. I visit a local pumpkin patch in anticipation of Halloween. There I purchase, after much reflection (which means looking in my wallet) a pumpkin for about $80 a pound. Prices have skyrocketed ever since ObamaCare was shoved down our throats, I mean introduced.
The pumpkins in the patch all look bright and put on their best show; they shove out their chests and try to appear round, even though they have covered up defects with makeup. Of course the owner of the patch has told them that the purchaser is taking them to a spa for a day of massages and makeovers. But some of them have heard rumors and pretend to be diseased. So you want to be selective when choosing your pumpkin.
Finally, I make a decision and wait in line at the loading dock. It takes about 20 men to load it into the trunk of my car. The ride home is difficult since all I can see is a bright orange mass out the back window. Once home, the National Guard is there to help carry the pumpkin onto the front lawn.
I wouldn’t go to this much trouble, but I’m the kind of person who cracks under pressure from my peers to decorate. If it was up to me, I would spend the money on a miniature pumpkin and a large pepperoni pizza, extra cheese.
But I’m prepared for the consequences. It’s interesting that the pumpkin, and all that goes with it, makes its appearance at the same time as the political elections. Payback or coincidence?
