Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Jagshemashing Pumpkins

So the other night some friends and I got together, ate some chili and carved some pumpkins, then just sat around and waited for the LL Bean photographers to show up. Our evening was basically what would happen if a James Taylor song came to life. Regardless of the Hallmark Hall-of-Fame environment, my pumpkin sucked. It looked like someone had just thrown knives at its face. There was no discernable pattern at all, even though I was following a page from those pumpkin-carving kits they sell at Harris Teeter. You know, the ones in the 'seasonal' aisle right beside the costumes that people only buy if they don't love their children. Really, under no circumstance should you purchase your kid's Halloween costume at a grocery store. Social services should be waiting beside the register to take your child into custody as soon as Judy rings up that filthy unicorn suit with what looks like applesauce or quite possibly phlegm matted into its fur.

Despite my earlier failure and the fact that I have a hard time carving a fork-sized bite out of a piece of meat, I decided that I could design a pumpkin so incredible, you would have to use profanity to describe it. It would be such a breathtaking gourd, the trick-or-treaters wouldn't even notice that I was filling their bags with tiny shampoos and sewing kits I'd collected at various Best Westerns.

I spent most of my day working on said design and in a perfect world, where things were just like they are inside my head, where I have my own dinosaur, and we sit on my sofa admiring my pumpkin and watching "My Two Dads" all day, the result would look like this:
Borat Pumpkin!
That's right. Borat. High five!

So I printed out a template, bought a pumpkin, and started carving. And by 'carving', I mean repeatedly knocking the pumpkin onto the floor, somehow cutting myself on the shin, making a large gash in my kitchen table, and maybe crying. More than once. Just let me point out that I could be out having sex if I wanted. Really. I've done it before. With another person.

Then reality reared its misshapen little head. The end result looked nothing like Borat. Or Alex Trebek. Or any other person that doesn't have severe chromosomal abnormalities. Several chunks of his flesh broke off and fell into his head cavity...the same thing that happened to Cher. As you can see from the picture, I had to reattach the missing bits with tiny nails. Again, just like Cher.

This Pumpkin Sucks

Some people say you just have to make lemonade out of life's lemons. These are the same people who have that "Hang In There" poster of a cat clinging to a branch. They also wear windsuits and collect Precious Moments figurines. So obviously we should ignore them. But when life gives you a shitty-ass, waste-of-time-you-could-have-spent-having-sex-or-playing-Nintendo-or-maybe-both-at-the-same-time-especially-if-you-did-it-on-the-Power-Pad kind of pumpkin, there's only one option.

Setting it on fire on your neighbor's patio.

Flaming Pumpkin

And standing beside his stupid plastic Tiki statue, downwind from the scent of disappointment.
And running like hell when that wind picked up.

Pumpkin Fire

Maybe I should feel moderately bad about singeing the edges of his pony-shaped "Wipe Your Hooves" doormat, but I can't, because what does that even mean? What kind of women does he bring home? Effing centaurs?

What a letdown...thank God I have this unicorn costume. I can't believe they had one in my size.


dutchie said...

I must say, when the first flames leaked out of his head, it was Borat alright!

theresa said...

Oh my word! I know that took lots of work but the last picture was priceless.

Overall I think he turned out allright...that would be considered to me one of those "challenging" carvings. :)

Hope you have a Happy Halloween anyways! :)

August said...

your Borat pumpkin looks like the really old Vincent Price. setting it on fire was the right thing to do to put it out of it's & everyone else's misery!

the pics of the flaming Borat are too incredible for words.