by Emily Adams
They prepare all year. They grow under the hallow darkness of the moonless sky. They ripen amongst their orange brethren. They cling tight to the vine, fearful of the farmer and his towering picket fence.
These fine vegetables are groomed to be the all-star on your porch from seed-ception. Raised with the values of the Pilgrims, our gourds inflame the fire of October 31st. But the poor, prim and proper bastards don’t know what’s coming. For Frankenstein’s sake, at birth, they are blind as a witch in heat. From planting season to harvest, it is the king of the squash, the big orange of the field, the hallmark of Halloween, that unknowingly sprouts towards the dreaded carving day.
The tenth month of the year means only one thing for the humble, orange giant:
The knife. The sharp, silver blade that will carve their eyes and their infamous snaggletooth smiles.
The pain will subside. The blade will retract. But what will be left but a maze of homely, dental defects? Sewn up by the orange tipped weapon, the fruits are left to greet everyone and anyone who enters the home of their sick, sick oppressor with the grin of a cavity-ridden rabbit.
The sheer cruelty of it all.
Consider their shame. Consider their self-esteem. A conversation about gourd mental health isn’t a conversation everyone is ready to have. But it is a conversation of dire importance. This holiday season, put down the knife before the haphazard hacking. Delight the children. Instagram your seasonally saturated yard. Revive the holiday we once loved. The one before the shroud of country-bumpkin grins. Invest in pumpkin veneers today.