I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get these decorative gourds the fuck out of my house. The clock expired on these goofy goose-necked bastards about six weeks ago, but I pushed it and the shit got real on me. It’s Autumn overtime up in here and these fuzzy fuckers need to go. When my guests come over I’m gonna be like, SORRY! My bad on all these rancid ornamental vegetables, you guys. I really should have stayed on top of this perishable shit.
One minute Fall’s like, “Hey, check out my delightful fucking harvest, I smell like cinnamon and apples and shit, isn’t this nice?” And I’m like, “It’s really fucking nice, I wish this could last forever.” So Fall’s like, “Be careful what you fucking wish for,” all ominous and shit. And I’m like, “Take it easy, Fall. Jesus.” And Fall’s like, “You fucking take it easy!”
Next thing I know, I’m rearranging my table horn and my fingers wind up two digits deep in gourd goo. And that shit smells like Fall’s crotch after a long jog through a fucking cornfield. And Fall’s like, “You like that smell? Huh? Is that the harvest you’re lookin’ for? Take a good whiff, asshole.” And I’m like, “But the shellack… it’s still so shiny…” And Fall just gets up real close on me and whispers, “The shellack lies.”
I’m about to throw on some kitchen gloves right now and toss these soupy fuckers into a double trash bag so their putrid squash juice doesn’t trickle all over my floor on their way out. Then I need to face the music on these Indian corns that went south on me when I wasn’t looking. I thought these petrified mini maizes would last forever but their dried-assed niblets took a funky turn and now I’ve got a foyer-full of foul fucking cobs to unload.
After that, I’m gonna head out to the front steps to do a Hazmat sweep on these Jack-O-Lanterns. Seems like yesterday I was carving happy smirks into these adorable dicks. But they’ve changed now. Mutated into a lazy-eyed mob of shriveled fucking squash zombies with Don King mold fros sprouting out of every hole nature hasn’t already shut.
These hay bales in my yard seemed like a nice way to honor the living shit out of Fall. I even stacked them onto an antique wagon and made it rain all over that 1800s asshole with a sack of Red Delicious and some crimson fucking foliage. Turns out I didn’t just make a perfect fucking seasonal masterpiece, I made a perfect fucking vermin condo, and those little pricks laid down more miniature bowel movements than I can wrap my head around.
But now I know what I need to do to make this shit right again. I’m gonna make some overdue amends with the harvest gods and gather up every last scrap of Fall I can find, pile it on top of that mouse toilet, then douse it with a nice big can of autumnal gasoline and torch this expired-assed season to kingdom fucking come.
Fall is fucking over, fuckheads.
If this made absolutely no sense to you, read the prequel here.