I saw Hocus Pocus on TV today. It was nonchalant and without warning, as it always is.
The pumpkin community knows this day well. A day of terror and dread. It is the official marker that the Purge has begun.
I don’t know what it is about those witches, but it makes the two-leggers go crazy. One minute they’re playing in the sand, paying us no mind, and then next they’re wearing plaid and committing pumpkincide.
A pumpkin does not spend a long time on this earth. We serve to decorate your tabletops and taste great in pies; we even spice up a basic bitch’s coffee.
And despite those great additions to society, every year during the Purge, our skin is knifed and amputated. We become mutilated beyond recognition to the horror and delight of our captors.
I’m sick to my stem that we live in a world where such conscious assault and battery is celebrated and looked upon with glee.
This isn’t even the people your pumpkin parents warned you to stay away from. It’s never the shifty-eyed farmers with too many guns, it’s the quote unquote “regular working folk” you need to stay away from. This twisted society has come to view our physical torture and humiliation as some kind of holiday spirit.
What I’m going to say next sounds impossible. But I swear to Gourd it’s the truth. Kids are doing it. Little hands, no bigger than the very blades they use, slice and dice us. Carving imperfect smiles into our flesh as their final taunt.
The torture is systematic and learned, and without your help, it may never go away.
Please. Break the cycle. I’m afraid it’s too late for me, but I have a lot of good pumpkins in the patch back home that are counting on me to change things. End the Purge.
