While I am aware of what I wrote about fall and the changing seasons, I am often alarmed at the fervor in which people (with our Oprah-esque societal pressures and rampant consumerism culture, determined to render everything perfectly, purchase-ably cute) embrace, promote and propagate their nauseatingly twee Autumnal Vision. This rosy-cheeked, apron-stringed, sickly-saccharined Hallmark Channel version of making sure you have enough food for the winter really just annoys. Look, things are dying. The days are getting shorter and it’s going to get a lot colder. Where’s the fun in that? Stockpile those potatoes, drink a Guinness and hole up. Bruin-like.

Grf. I think I’m a mite grumpy today. My feet are cold and I need to split firewood down to a burnable size. But I do love this:

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

You should read the whole thing. Suits my mood perfectly. So put that in your pumpkin and smoke it.

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