Don't let the professional sign fool you; this is a strictly UNprofessional operation.Why are you sleeping with the man from the Halloween store?
I ask you this as both a husband and a friend. Apparently you are fine with the vows of marriage being physically violated by a man who has sold hundreds -- no! thousands! -- of pounds of fake plastic excrement. Bravo. To let a criminal who trades in goblin accessories fiddle with your dirty bits -- the same bits our dear son Joshua tore his way loose from some eight years ago. Gee, sure wish I'd gotten to know that kid for more than a few days! Who drops their own newborn baby the second they get out of the hospital? Only you, Carol. Only you.
Carol, I know these Halloween men all too well from my days in plastics wholesaling. They were slick customers who lived out of suitcases and went by aliases like "Joe Christmas" and "Patrick von New Year's." What did he call himself, Carol? Did he tell you he'd be going on "vacation" this November first? That's when the operation goes underground, and you suddenly find your credit card limit maxed out on Chili's charges. That's right, Carol. These guys can afford to eat at Chili's for every meal. And it's all because of people like you. I guess your brain has butterfingers, too.
You ever tug on that mustache of his to see if it was real? Odds are, he pulled it from his own inventory. He have a pair of thick black glasses and a smooth, bulbous nose to match? Bet you thought he was pretty confident for having such a unique look. Oh Carol, you really dropped the baby on this one. You know I have Trick OR treat? I'd say I got more of the former.forbid both of us to enter the local Halloween store, and it is exactly for reasons like this. Every time I pass that accursed place I clutch my wallet firmly and say a Hail Mary, and the parts of Our Father I can still remember. I have not been in Church since your cosmic mistake, Carol, but I believe in evil. There are forces out there far greater than we can handle.
I was a fool to ignore the writing on the wall. Several barrels of candy corn in the pantry instead of just the one from Sam's Club. How haunted house sound effects CDs quickly replaced Rod Stewart on our commutes to Sam's Club. The fact that you quit shopping at Sam's Club and all of our dinners soon transitioned into bowls of fun size bulk candy garnished with Lik-M-Aid. The fake severed arm you comically hung out of your Chevette's hatchback. Do I need to go on? I could smell him on you at night, Carol: hate and black licorice. Practically one and the same. Figuring this one out was as easy as holding a baby properly, which is something that most of us know how to do.
I remember the day that Halloween store opened; we were in Sears, and I was once again showing you the various outfits our once-living son could have worn. Just as I put together the perfect little league ensemble, you were gone from my sight, transplanted in front of that accursed glow-in-the-dark monster makeup display. Here's a tip for you, Carol: when you come stumbling home at one-o-clock in the morning from your "book club," think about washing that stuff off a bit better -- unless you want your husband to wonder why a floating This is all I can taste when we kiss.skull who reeks of candy corn has suddenly decided to materialize in his bedroom. Honestly, you must have been dropped on your head when you were a baby -- oh, wait. If that happened, you'd be dead! Guess we had to find that one out the hard way.
I'm afraid that's it for us, Carol. You think your Halloween store gigolo is going to keep up with your Netflix bills? I bet that guy's got a Carol in every town, maybe even some with babies who made it out of the hospital parking garage and lived to tell the tale. Can you imagine that? Don't worry Carol; I'm sure he'll find a place for you in his harem. Maybe you and the other wives can share stories of your lives before they turned into 18 hours of re-bristling witch brooms, motivated only by the fear of being whipped with extension cords. I'll never forget what my dear grandpa said: "Once they go Halloween, they never come clean." And if he wasn't still in the nursing home with debilitating Alzheimer's, I'd be able to tell him about today's victory.
At what point does your ruthless gnawing count as self-cannibalism?
Liberals want to mess with the rooms where we poo and pee. Unacceptable. We must protect our poo and pee.
These all just look like normal cats to me.
From what I understand, this genre is about getting eaten by crocodiles. I excel at this.
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