To the lady handing out Jesus pamphlets to us trick-or-treaters
Thanks for nothing. No, seriously.
Do you have any idea how much work I put into my costume? It took me almost 3 hours to do the makeup alone. Every detail painstakingly thought of and completed, right down to the little scratches on the hands and the grazings and cuts on the arms and legs. Do you have any idea how long it took me to find a suitable shield and sword? Or how about the battle uniform? I bet you didn’t even consider that perhaps it was actually straight off the movie set. Well, it was.
It wasn’t cheap, doing all this. I was the one that incurred those expenses, not my parents. I burned the income from more hours of my after-school job than I would care to admit on that damn costume, all to amuse and impress people like you. And I did it with the expectation that there would be a return on my investment; namely in the form of candy. Sweet, sugary goodness. Heck, even money would have been fine–some of your neighbors did just that. Loot conveniently placed into that huge sack; and what’s more, I would even be willing to walk all over town collecting it so that people didn’t have to deliver it to me. Yes, the outfit, the sword, the shield, the sack…all very heavy; close to 60 pounds in all that I pack-muled all over town, but no pain no gain, right?
This was to be my last year of the trick or treating thing. I’m getting a little too tall, a little too old. This was my grand finale; my blaze of glory, my shining farewell. Sure, I could have ‘dressed up’ like a teenager like so many others I saw on the streets last night, but I wanted to go out in style. Let it never be said I was unwilling to work for my loot.
Your house seemed so promising as I approached. 3 nicely carved pumpkins, some of that fake spider webbing, even one of those fog machines. I had you pegged for a Sour Patch Kids person. So imagine my surprise when, after trudging up your ridiculously steep driveway and ringing your doorbell, your bulbous ass appeared with a basket full of stuff that was most definitely NOT candy. Before I could pull back, you had already reached a claw into the basket, pulled out that little booklet, and seemingly-annoyingly tossed it into my bag. What’s worse is your saggy old ass actually appeared to expect me to say thank you for it. Trick or treat indeed, you old hag.
When I got home to divide out the fruits of my labor, my worst fears were confirmed: It was one of those Jehovah’s Witness ‘God loves you’ pamphlets. I thought you delusional psychopaths didn’t even believe in holidays and didn’t celebrate them. What, annoying me by waking me up early on a Saturday morning by beating down my door to try and convert me not enough, so you have to resort to trickery? What on Earth would have made you think I, or anyone else, had any interest in getting one of those from you, you fat sow? Your house was fairly large, in a nice part of town. Was it just that you were too much of a cheap cum drizzling gutter slut to spend a few bucks on some bags of candy instead of getting those booklets free from your ‘church’? You’re even worse than that jerk that gave me a toothbrush–at least I can shave the handle of his gift into a prison shank and use it for protection next time one of my classmates decides to bring an Uzi to school and shoot the place up. What am I supposed to do with your thing? Hold it up to him and yell out “The power of Christ compels you!”?
I mean really, why would anyone think that on Halloween people are open to being converted into believing in some invisible sky fairy that magically grants wishes if you beg it hard enough and donate some of your money to its church? Do you not even understand the point? Again, thanks for nothing.
I’m sure when your gargantuan ass rolled out of bed this morning, shimmied into your mumu and waddled out front to get your newspaper you were quite surprised. Allow me to explain. Your pumpkins were deceitfully carved and placed to lure unsuspecting children into your GodTrap. Therefore, they needed to be smashed all over your porch. And those spider web things were just hanging there, so it seemed a perfect place to hang the gunk from the pumpkins on so they would properly dry out for future baking. Your neighbors ended up giving me just a little over 9 dollars by the time it was all said and done, which was just enough for me to buy a few rolls of toilet paper, some saran wrap a small package of bologna and a Blow Pop from the store. The TP you found strewn all over anything in your yard it would hang from or stick to is Quilted Northern, double ply–let it never be said that I am a cheap corner-cutting individual such as yourself. The cold cuts? Well, I had to make some sort of a bread crumb trail to bring your attention to how I had so thoughtfully gift wrapped your car in the saran wrap, and I figured bread crumbs wouldn’t be cholesterol-ridden enough to be tempting enough to motivate your thunderous girth to follow it. I thought about using lard or butter, but there’s always the risk of it raining and washing away. And the Blow Pop? Nay, it was not for me; that is my gift to you–lovingly placed upon your welcome mat, a friendly reminder of an example of what you SHOULD have been handing out last night. Plus, I figure sucking is something that comes naturally to you, so you would find it a welcome treat. Oh, and thank you for the fog machine. It’s lovely, and I will put it to use next year when I join the ranks of people who are behind the door handing out the candy as opposed to in front of it collecting.
I did all this not for myself, you see. Nay, the damage was already done for me, there was no making it right. I did this to protect my fellow trick-or-treaters that will carry on the torch next year and continue in the tradition as I hang up my pillow case and look back at a fruitful candy-gathering career. Hopefully this will inspire you to just do us all a favor and leave your god damned light OFF next Halloween instead of luring unsuspecting youngsters into your bible-thumping web of horror. I’m sure a night of darkness shouldn’t be hard for you, since I’m positive every man who’s ever gotten drunk enough to sleep with you probably still demanded pitch black while he did the deed. Happy Halloween, you shriveled up old bat.
Original Source: To the lady handing out Jesus pamphlets to us trick-or-treaters
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