Punkins

It is of course a cruel act of unfeeling Fate that a evening-eating "holiday" like All Hallows falls exactly on the one night a week I set aside to entertain the masses* with a level of sophisticated literary wit exactly in line with what one might expect for a cost of no dollars.

But alas, it has happened. It is late and I am freshly right the fuck out of interpersonal engagement. The very last bit of it I gave away with the last Bit O' Honey I dropped in a stranger's child's bag.

While I recharge, fueled entirely by congealed high-fructose corn syrup and red dyes of various numbers, I will leave you with this short poem:

Ahem:


If Halloween is an island
And Thanksgiving's an isthmus
What's that yonder continent?
Oh: it's just fucking Christmas

It's never too early to "bah humbug," everybody.



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*OK, "masses" is likely a bit optimistic. Probably just the one mass.