The Bone-Chilling, Spine-Tingling, Hair-Raising, Bloodcurdling Hallowe'en House of Horror
It’s the Great Pumpkin-Patch Farmer, Charlie Brown!
Jesus H. Christ, those pesterin’ little freak chil’en are crawlin’ ’round in my punkin patch ag’in. Ain’t a Hallowe’en goes by, they’s ain’t rootin’ ’round my punkins lookin’ fors a ghost or sumpin’.
Sheeit, that grotesque little bald feller’s got the biggest durn skull in tarnation. Is he sick or sumpin’? Is he dying? His noggin’s bigger’n a haystack. And that dog of his gives me the willies. It’s like the dang dog can think. One time, I reckon I seen the durn mutt sittin’ atop his doghouse, typin’ on a typey-writer machine.
And wouldja lookit that one extra-filthy little varmint? He’s so dirty he got himself his own dust devil. Aw, no, jeez, there goes that little bossy loudmouthed gal, always a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’ with her panties in a twist. Only thing ever quiets her down is when that little fairy starts playin’ his pian-ey. What a little Liberace pansy.
And I really don’t none like it too much the way them two girlie-girls are all kissy-kissy with each other. That little nerdy gal with the glasses always followin’ ’round that hippie tomboy. It’s just unnatural, y’ask me.
The only reason I don’t put on a gorill-ey mask and spook the shit out of them kids is because I don’t want to scare that bigheaded sick kid too bad, else I reckon he’d keel over and die right on the spot. Christ, that’d be just what I need. Another dead kid found on my property. Sheeit.