Tag Archives: comedy

How To Adult: Surviving Surgery


Congratulations!  After close to a year of gross stuff falling out of your lady parts in many strange and unusual ways, you’ve finally convinced yourself to see a doctor, who has gone on to inform you that you’ve got a small benign growth that’s probably been causing all of your ills.  You’ve managed to bite your tongue enough to avoid asking why it’s been landing you on death’s doorstep once a month if it’s so “benign” and now said doctor is talking about sending you in for some minor surgery to zap it off with a laser, thus turning your hoo-ha into a DJ Tiësto concert.

I included this photo of my vagina with my Suicide Girls application but was turned down.

I included this photo of my vagina with my Suicide Girls application but was turned down.

Your initial reaction should be to fistpump and yell “LET’S DO THIS” in the middle of the exam room to show that you are fearless and awesome.  You should, however, then double over in pain and vomit into a trashcan because you forgot that sudden movements hurt now.

Fast-forward to the big day.  You are a grown-ass woman striding confidently into the outpatient waiting area, but before you can get to the slicing and dicing, you’ve got paperwork to fill out.  Discover that the only clipboards available for you to use towards this end are located in a basket sitting on the floor.  Audibly mutter “son of a BITCH” in front of a two-year-old, whose mother gives you a very angry look as you awkwardly bend sort-of-forward-but-mostly-to-the-side to avoid barfing while you pick one out of the mess.  Dutifully plug away at the papers in front of you, only to realize as you’re signing your name at the end of Page 1273658293 that you filled everything out one line above where it should have been written.  Sigh loudly and exclaim “Fuck me!”  The angry mother from before will now pick up her toddler and move to the opposite end of the waiting area.

Despite your appointment being at 12:30, you will not be seen until closer to 1:45.  During this time, you should ignore the Kindle and fully-functional smartphone with 32 gigabytes of your favorite music and stare blankly at a continuous loop of The Bucket List.  Make a mental note to suggest to the hospital staff that a movie about two people dying of cancer might not be the most inspiring choice for their waiting room.  Once your name is finally called, allow all of your previous hardcore, optimistic mentality to evaporate as you realize that strangers are about to fire lightsabers at your most tender of places and become a 26-year-old woman standing in the middle of a hospital crying for her mother to come hold her hand.  It’s okay.  It’s standard procedure.

Once you disappear through the double doors into the actual exam and prep area, you will immediately be handed three sample cups and instructed to pee in them.  For the past several months you have either been peeing constantly and unable to shit, or shitting constantly to the point of diagnosing yourself with cholera on WebMD and unable to pee.  Today, and only today, you will discover that you can do neither.  After fifteen minutes of sitting on the toilet bargaining, threatening, pleading, and encouraging your bladder, finally manage to get things moving along.  Unfortunately, you have completely misjudged your nether anatomy and will miss all but two drops.  Sheepishly place all three cups in the sample deposit window and try to tiptoe past the lab technician who takes one look at your “bounty” and shoots you a withering look.  Wonder to yourself if she’s related to Angry Mother from the waiting area.

Back in the exam room, a nurse is waiting to draw some blood from you.  Talk up your superior bleeding skills as she ties off your upper arm and announce that you’re an “easy stick.”  She will poke at your arm a few times before announcing that every single one of your veins has suddenly decided to flip everyone the middle finger and not cooperate.  Finally, one in the crook of your arm sort of pops up, but it will immediately collapse and require an agonizing thirty seconds of digging for it before she announces it’s no good and goes to retrieve a specialist.  The specialist will stare at your tiny threadlike veins in dismay before declaring that the only way to get any blood out of you today will be using a lancet on the side of your finger.  The good news is that the stick site will bleed.  The bad news is that it will only provide the smallest drop before clotting.  Two more attempts later, you find yourself surrounded by three nurses yanking your arm downward and massaging the already-sore area to try and coax enough blood out to run the necessary tests.  The doctor will show up in the midst of the confusion and attempt to hold a deep, meaningful conversation at the same time as everyone else in the room.  Try to participate in all four conversations at once, guaranteeing that your greatest contribution to the verbal fray is “Um… I guess… wait, no, July.  NO.  AUGUST.  Latex?  Seventeen.”

The ultrasound technician will come in to take a look at the current state of your not-so-benign lump of shit that shouldn’t be there.  Lift up your gown to expose your stomach.  She will look at you confusedly and instruct you to remove your underwear.  Take a good twenty seconds to realize what she means.  This is not the simple ultrasound that TV has always showed you.  Reruns of ER have lied to you.  Goran Visnjic’s sexy deception will not soon be forgotten.

Actual size of ultrasound wand based on (very) personal estimation.

Actual size of ultrasound wand based on (very) personal estimation.

The next couple of hours go by without a hitch.  Before you know it, you are somewhat drowsily listening to the doctor giving you instructions on the five thousand and four medications that she expects you to take over the next few days of recovery.  After noticing your blank stare, she begins to place colored stickers on the bottles and on the medication schedule and use smaller words.  Find yourself unsure of whether to be grateful or offended.  She will ask you to verify the medication allergies you have listed in your chart.  Confirm the allergy to sulfa drugs, but hesitate on mentioning the erythromycin thing.  It’s been years since you last took it, and you were just a little kid, so of course it’s going to make you feel crappy (literally), right?  Decide that since your airway stayed open, you’re probably fine and decline to mention it.  She will warn you that over the next few days you may notice some bleeding, but that this is normal.  Her version of “some bleeding” and the actual version you will experience over the next few days will differ greatly.



At home, you will quickly discover that you should have mentioned the erythromycin thing.  You really, really, really should have.  But you will not come to this conclusion until after vomiting up water and saltines for several hours.  Also realize that no matter how excited you are about the Associate Quest Designer position that Blizzard just posted on their website, you should probably not drag yourself out of bed three hours post-surgery to apply, because it will come back to bite you in the ass once the pain meds wear off, which they will do about halfway through your cover letter.

And that, folks, is a true story.  The surprise medical adventure has caused a slight delay in my starting work in the game industry, but with a blissfully short estimated recovery time (assuming I don’t do anything else irresponsible like sit at the computer writing a 1000+ word arti — oh.) I should be back to relatively normal by Monday.  I haven’t been around much because of the poor health leading up to this, and then a very rough couple of recovery days, but I’m happy to report that I can finally sleep without discomfort and have more energy than I’ve had in quite some time.  I haven’t needed to take any of the pain pills they gave me since about 4 a.m. yesterday and for the first time in a while I can actually do simple things like make myself lunch and walk around the house.

In the meantime, I implore all of you to listen to your body, and if you feel like something is really wrong, seek medical attention as soon as you can.  I’m fortunate enough to live in the great state of California which offers a fantastic program called Medi-Cal for those of us who can’t otherwise afford healthcare, and many non-profit hospitals are happy to work with you to reduce or write off your bill if necessary.  I took a stupid risk by waiting so long to get checked out, especially with my family’s history of cancer.  I was lucky this time, but I may not be so fortunate again.  A trip to the doctor isn’t exactly like going to Disneyland, but it could save your life in the long run.


Overlord Bunny Is Now a YouTube Star (No More Pretending)


A few weeks ago I announced to the cold, uncaring internet that I was going to be guest-starring in an episode of Have You Met Marcus Morgan?, a web series that is written and filmed by a few of my good friends.  Though we suffered a few production delays (read as: Netflix added the seventh season of How I Met Your Mother), we finally managed to make it happen.  Without further adieu, I present to you the episode “We Are Shameless,” which I also helped to outline some of the gags for.  There’s singing and dancing!

Hey, I never said it was good singing and dancing, although admit it, I totally killed that Dougie.

Though the Marcus Morgan series has been going on for a while now and I’ve been present for a couple of the tapings, this is the first time I’ve stepped in front of the camera, at least on purpose.  The acting I did in high school and with a few of my exes (zing!) can’t compare to how totally awesome this experience was.  I hope I’ll get to do it again, either with the cast of HYMMM or through some other channel that does not involve night vision and the stench of eternal shame.

Here are some awesome behind-the-scenes facts:

  • A few jokes didn’t make it into the final cut due to time constraints, but they were pretty awesome (though the ones left in kick complete ass, too) and might show up in an outtakes reel at some point.
  • The majority of the Marcus Morgan videos are completely off-the-cuff.  There’s a basic prompt and some outlining ahead of time as far as important scenes, but other than that, it’s all improvisation.
  • The DVDs that Kelly, who played the Friend With Shitty Taste In Movies (in real life her cinematic appetites are just fine), is holding are actually not what she said they are, because we didn’t think ahead/none of us suck enough to actually own the Star Wars prequels or the fourth Indiana Jones movies, so we just pulled the booklets out of some random ones we had lying around.
  • After throwing my shoe out the door I spent like 20 minutes trying to find it again because by that time the sun had gone down and I’m too stupid to turn on the porch light.
  • The smashed-up car belongs to Matt’s sister, who got into a wreck a couple of weeks prior to the shoot.  Miraculously she was unhurt, and she’s already gotten a new set of wheels, so before this one got carted off to wherever it is that sedans go to die we decided to turn the negative into a positive and use it in the video.
  • There’s no alcohol in the bottles I was “drinking” out of, since I don’t drink.
  • I spent hours watching instructional videos on how to Dougie on YouTube before the shoot, and that’s still the best I could come up with.  I don’t understand you kids and your YOLO and Cali Swag District.
  • I was singing the Celine Dion version of “All By Myself,” not the Michael Bolton version, unless Michael Bolton is cooler than Celine Dion, in which case I recant.  Either way, I am the next American Idol.

At any rate, I hope you all enjoy watching us make assholes out of ourselves on the internet, because it’s what we love to do.  In the meantime, you can hit up the official Have You Met Marcus Morgan? fan page, and add Overlord Bunny on Facebook to get the first look at our shenanigans (no, that is not a code word for testicles).

A Steamy Romance Novel: 50 Shades of Ley (With Sincere Apologies to Blizzard)


If there’s any vendor trash item that I’ve ever been actually happy to receive, it’s any of the Steamy Romance Novels found throughout the World of Warcraft.  Our guild actually keeps them in a lending library of sorts on the main tab of the guild bank.  The hilariously skillful and oftentimes disturbing way in which they toe the line with double entendres and innuendos (inYOURendo!) has pretty much guaranteed them a place in my heart as my favorite writing example in the entire game.

While bored a few nights ago, I decided to add my own installment to the trilogy of General Marcus Jonathan’s exploits across Azeroth and beyond.  I scribbled down a couple of ideas but only now actually sat down to try and turn it into a “coherent” piece.

I apologize to all two of my readers, Blizzard Entertainment, my mother, my stepfather, and if I believed in him, probably Jesus Christ himself.  The following is a fan work and is not an official World of Warcraft composition.  No copyright infringement is intended as I am not profiting from it in any way, unless you guys actually want to give me a job which I will happily accept and promise to scrap the idea for the Tyrande and Illidan pairing I had planned next.  Also, let it be known that tagging this post was the most awkward thing I’ve ever done.

General Marcus Jonathan strained against his bindings. “Don’t your people know the phrase ‘don’t shoot the messenger?’” he asked, warily eyeing the shapely black mageweave-clad draenei woman before him. “I told you, some dwarf by the side of the road handed me the note and told me to bring it here. That’s all I know!”

“You will speak only when spoken to!” his beautiful captor hissed and reached out to grab his swollen, heavy sack.

Marcus rolled his eyes and groaned as the coins within clinked together in her tight grasp. “Oh come on! You already took my pants! I’ll tell you what, keep them, forget the reward, just give me one of those rings and we’ll call it even. I bet they’d do just fine at the auctioneer.”

“Yes. They are real,” she mused for a moment, then shot him a somewhat threatening look. “And they can cut glass.”

Marcus’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Lady, I’m telling you. You’re pretty and all, but I don’t play rough. Unless, of course” – here his eyes took on a hopeful spark – “you’d be willing to try some… role-reversal?”

The draenei blushed and stared down at her freshly-polished hooves for a moment. Even she was not immune to the General’s charms. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined him touching her the way A’dal had…

“Fine. Bring ample supply of butter, and goblin jumper cables,” she whispered into his ear in a sultry, heavily-accented voice as she undid the tight cuffs around his wrists.

The freed paladin eagerly watched the enticing vision of her backside sashaying into the next room for a few moments before following her in. He had only taken a few steps over the threshold when he noticed the succubus standing next to a hooded gnome. “Ah… I thought it was just going to be… you know… I’ve never been with a gnome before.”

“Nothing can compare to gnomish engineering,” the draenei protested and gestured towards a table lined with an array of particularly strange-looking mechanical objects.

Marcus hesitated for a moment, then sighed and undid his belt. Dungeon crawling was not without its dangers, or its rewards.

<The rest of the pages are stuck together with what you hope is candle wax.>

Overlord Bunny Is Going To Be a YouTube Star (Or At Least Pretend To Be)


Someone once said “fake it till you make it.”  I operate by this philosophy on a daily basis, where I fake being an important celebrity-type person both here and on Twitter.  I mean, I guess I could take the Kardashian route and make a sex tape, but it’d be sort of like The Ring in which everyone who saw me naked would die in seven days if they didn’t vomit themselves to death first like Kate Middleton tried to do, so for now I’ll just stick to being hilarious.

Well, it turns out that one of my good friends, Marcus Morgan, is not only hilarious, he’s also a celebrity, so he’s got me beat there.  Luckily he’s been magnanimous enough to include me in his upcoming installment of the Have You Met Marcus? videos in the hopes that not only will we find him a special lady friend who doesn’t mind the taste of cream of asparagus soup (trust me, it’s important, especially if you’re German), but I will finally be a legitimate internet celebrity, if there is such a thing.

Filming starts this Saturday, and its official YouTube release will happen soon after, so stay tuned, folks!  In the meantime, why not check out a few of Marcus’s videos to learn more about his lore and legend?

I Know Why the Caged Author Drinks


Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, I would like to announce to you that I am not dead, nor have I gotten bored with the decidedly unglamorous life of a freelance blogger.  In truth, it’s quite the opposite!  NaNoWriMo, however, has been taking up the majority of my time.  Since I started a full 10 days late due to catastrophic hard drive failure, I’m having to write extra fast and hard (giggity) to ensure that I finish by the deadline.  I’ve already managed to bust the 25,000 word mark, a.k.a. the halfway point, like a cheerleader on prom night.  If that simile has not completely offended you, I’d like to also point out that it’s not too late to sponsor my novel with a donation to the Office of Letters and Light!  I’ve also finally got an excerpt up for the curious among you to sample.

I definitely don’t regret entering NaNoWriMo.  I’ve been hearing about it for years, and it’s been a dream of mine to be able to dedicate myself to finishing an entire novel.  But I think I may have slightly underestimated the challenge when I signed up.  I’m obnoxiously talkative, to be sure, but 50,000 words?  That’s tough, even for me.  There are days when I really just want to lay in bed and watch Netflix all day instead of doing the responsible author thing and actually writing.  At least in this first draft, you can tell when those days are, because the parts written during severe cases of lazyassholitis (it’s a real disease, I looked it up) are rough, rough, rough.  Turning off my inner editor, who keeps insisting that if I don’t go back and fix it I’ll be no better than Stephenie Meyer, is no easy task.  Yet my oftentimes irrational refusal to give up on being able to dance around in the proverbial winner’s circle allows me to power through.  The key to winning NaNoWriMo is not necessarily talent.  It’s the ability to be stubborn as all Hell, even in the face of the death of your social life or possibly your sanity.

And anyway, my resume for Blizzard is woefully thin.  If I can finish this, I can add “NaNoWriMo Winner for 2012” to the list, and hopefully be able to actually publish the novel.

Oh yeah, the social life.  I used to have one.  Not this month, though!  I keep getting concerned texts and emails from friends seeing if I’m okay, because they haven’t heard from me in a while.  “When are we going to get to see you?” they ask.  The answer, guys, is probably December, assuming I don’t develop an aneurysm by then.  I’m not being cold-hearted, either.  Every time I get a request to hang out, I make grabby hands at whatever screen I happen to be reading it off of and weep.  Writing a novel, at least in such a condensed time frame, is basically like a 30-day free trial of agoraphobia.  The special bonus challenge level is going to hit this Wednesday, when The Fiance returns to my part of town just in time for the Thanksgiving holiday.  It’s times like this that I wish I were Canadian so I could have gotten the threat of holiday-induced slackerdom out of the way like two months ago.  Three months.  I don’t know, whenever you weird mountie people celebrate your bizzaro-world holidays, like Boxing Day.

In general, I’m starting to understand why Edgar Allan Poe and so many other authors drank themselves to death or died poor and crazy.  The stress of looming deadlines, the isolation, the constant second-guessing of yourself and pressure to, you know, not completely suck — it’s a lot to have on your plate, especially when you’re trying to juggle other aspects of your life at the same time.  And freelance writing in general doesn’t really pay a lot, or steadily, unless you get extremely lucky or have a great self-marketing strategy.  What time I’m not spending on the novel itself is being devoted to promoting myself on various social media outlets and just trying to get the word out that hey, I can write, you guys, and I’d also like it if you threw dollar bills at me like some kind of linguistic stripper for doing it.  All in all, I have just enough time to eat, spend an hour or two to myself, and fall asleep so that I can experience some of the weirdest dreams I’ve ever had thanks to constantly using the creative parts of my brain.  I had one where I got hired for the game design team at Blizzard and my clothes got ruined on the way to my first day of work, so I showed up in a toga made out of a Star Wars blanket while trying to avoid my boss so that he wouldn’t think I was being unprofessional.  I’m also eating like crap — quick meals devoured at the speed of light so that I can get back to writing.  On top of all that, I have managed to give myself the worst lower back spasms in the world from spending all day sitting at my desk tapping away at my keyboard.  People assume that I’ve messed up my back while working out or doing something productive.  The look on their faces is priceless when I tell them “No no no, you see, I’m a writer…”

And I wouldn’t change a damn thing for the world.  Writing is still my passion.  It is the first thing I have done, the first “job” I’ve had, even if it is, right now, on an “on my own” type of basis, where I’ve worked unreasonably long hours and had to overcome ridiculously tall hurdles and I haven’t wanted to give up.  For all the self-abuse that being a writer hurls at me, the dirty looks from people who think that writing isn’t a real career or consider me to be a starving artist (I totally would be without all of those Hot Pockets and fast food tacos), the slow months where I find myself looking through all of my stuff figuring out what I can sell or pawn to make ends meet, it is still completely worth it, at least in my world.  I stand tall and proud as I walk down the street.  I tell everyone I talk to about the novel I’m writing, or my aspirations to be a game designer.  When they tell me “Bunny, you’re never going to make it,” I tell them that not making it is not an option for me.

If you’re a writer reading this, allow me to grab you by the shoulders and shake you like a British nanny while I implore you to never, ever give up. If it’s truly your dream, if you’re ready to dedicate yourself to a lot of lonely nights and a lot of ramen noodles, you will succeed.  I’m there with you in spirit, probably ghost-tripping over all the shit you’ve got laying out in the middle of the living room floor (seriously, how old are you, 10?  Clean it up before you kill someone).  Solidarity fistbumps all around.

I Don’t Wanna Grow Up, I’m A Halloween Kid


Today is Halloween, and officially marks the first of 25 years in which I have not dressed up or handled candy (whether giving or receiving, and yes, I know that sounds dirty, and I have no regrets).  Instead, I am limited to wearing my Hello Kitty Halloween shirt and doing my special Halloween dance which comes with an original Halloween song that goes as follows:


I performed this for The Boyfriend this morning.  I don’t think he fully appreciated it because he just kind of stared at me flailing about on the lawn and shrieking out the chorus at the top of my lungs and told me to get in the car.  Maybe it’s the lyrical minimalism that doesn’t appeal to him, or the lack of pulsing synths.  At any rate, I expect the death metal remix to be released within the next year.

Somewhere along the lines it became a rule that if you’re over the age of 12 you’re not allowed to costume up and beg strangers for candy.  There is another rule that says if you are any age ending in -teen you are supposed to go around the neighborhood wearing “ironic” T-shirts that say things like “This Is My Halloween Costume” because you’re so sarcastic and edgy, man, I’m totes jelly and want to hang with you and listen to Fall Out Boy.  The final rule is that once you reach drinking age, you get to wear the same costumes you did as a kid but with the addition of the adjective “sexy” and down jello shots until you vomit your liver out of your eyeballs.  Though I am indeed at least of drinking age, this last one is sadly out of reach for me, due to the fact that mixing alcohol and my anti-convulsant meds will, to paraphrase my doctor, “straight up kill [my] ass.”

All of these rules suck.  I can understand not wanting to reward people for having shitty costumes, especially adults who should have the fine motor skills by this point to put together something even mildly acceptable, but what about those of us who actually put stupid amounts of effort into it?  “But you have conventions to cosplay at now,” the anti-grownup-Halloween fascists will declare.  This is very true, and very enjoyable, in fact, except for one very important thing: the complete lack of candy as a reward for walking around in weird clothes all night.  Halloween at its core is the one night of the year when the awkward nerd kids like myself can finally shine.  What’s that?  You threw a sheet over your head and you’re a ghost?  That’s precious.  Me?  I’m a screen-accurate Princess Leia, bitch.  And this is my real hair that I grew out all year so I could put it in the proper diameter buns ESPECIALLY FOR HALLOWEEN.

But even worse than this is the fact that opportunities for anyone to trick-or-treat the old fashioned way are disappearing faster than ever.  Walking door-to-door has been replaced by a Trunk or Treat abomination in many locations, where children are taught that it’s totally cool to get into a stranger’s car if they have candy, and also told that the mere act of accepting candy has condemned their souls to burn in Hell for eternity (totally worth it for the candy corn alone).  This is something I never understood, by the way.  If Halloween is supposedly blasphemous and evil, then by corralling all of the neighborhood kids into your church parking lot and/or handing out those stupid Chicktracts to either save our souls or scar us for life — I was never sure which of those was their ultimate goal, I mean, sweet mortal Jesus, what better way to celebrate any holiday than a terminally ill child and watching your friend die in the middle of the street — aren’t you still celebrating it yourselves, regardless of intent?  It can’t even be argued that it’s permissible because it’s “for a good cause” when you consider that kids eschewing candy in favor of collecting pennies for UNICEF are apparently still going straight to the lake of fire.  What kind of message does that send?  “Love thy neighbor, kids, except on Halloween, otherwise you’re going to spontaneously combust and get face-humped by Satan. ”

Then there’s the trick-or-treating events at shopping centers and malls across the country, which seem anti-climactic to me if not for the fact that if I want to watch a bunch of kids dressed weird while they walk around at the mall, all I have to do is camp out in front of Hot Topic for a few hours (if you overprice it and add a fake vintage wash, they will come).  I understand that we’re trying to make Halloween safer for kids to make sure that nobody gets poisoned or eats a razorblade-infested apple, though handing out apples at Halloween is in itself a severe offense punishable by a thorough TP-ing of the house after everyone goes to sleep, but then I remember that oops, all those supposed cases of poisoned candy from strangers were utter bullshit and the small number of needle-hidden-in-candy incidents that have occurred were so minor that nobody even needed medical attention, let alone died from it.  In fact, most cases of non-accidental child poisonings can be traced back to the freaking parents.  Which makes sense, I guess, since they need to keep up the ruse somehow in order to continually allow themselves to steal the best pieces of candy out of their kids’ haul under the pretense of “this one looks slightly unwrapped.”

Yeah, mom.  It took me 20 years, but I finally figured out your game.  That candy was perfectly fine, you just wanted all the Milky Ways to yourself and disguised it as caring for my health and well-being.  That being said, it is a brilliant scheme and I totally look forward to sending my future children out to collect candy so that I can pick through it and “save” their lives.

The reason these sterilized versions of Halloween bother me so much is because it removes the thrill of the hunt that I felt as a kid.  Halloween was the most important holiday of all to mini-overlord — additionally, the most awesome part is that being a Jew means I get two Halloweens (scroll down to #4 and remember that I feed on your envious tears) — meaning that costuming and even being able to participate in the festivities was the most serious of business.  The amount of candy you received was directly proportionate to how awesome your costume was and how cute you were when you reached the door.  I’ve trick-or-treated while deathly ill.  When I was two, my parents asked me if I needed to use the restroom before we got started.  I lied and said no.  Then I peed myself in the driveway because going to the bathroom would have delayed trick-or-treating and meant I’d have to shave at least two houses off of my route.  That’s dedication right there.  You just don’t get that kind of excitement and determination when you know that the amount of candy you get has been predetermined and is exactly the same as the kid in the shitty robot costume made out of unpainted cardboard boxes.  You don’t get to frolic among fake tombstones and motion-activated plastic skeletons hanging from the neighbor’s porch and pretend you’re a super-brave explorer of haunted houses.  You don’t get to carefully plan your route with your trick-or-treating buddies, you don’t get to go to the rich neighborhoods where they hand out the whole candy bars instead of that fun-sized crap… it’s soulless, and it kills me to think that by the time my future children are catapulted out of my lady regions, this is all that will remain for them.  We are leaving them a ruined kingdom, the smoldering ashes of what Halloween once was.

But I guarantee you that much like cockroaches after the apocalypse, those black and orange-wrapped taste abortions will still be around.  Seriously, who actually likes those, besides old people who lived through the Great Depression and had no choice but to like them or else starve to death?  Did you know they’re actually supposed to be PEANUT BUTTER FLAVORED?  Whoever invented them has clearly never tasted peanut butter in their lives.  At least the next generation will still know the disappointment that comes with finding half of their treat bucket lined with the damned things.

I understand that a lot of people will probably read this and think I’m obsessive or immature.  To this I say “yes.”  But then, if you haven’t figured that out by now, there’s really not much hope for you.