Up My Own Ass

I love Halloween.  I love pumpkins.  So, it was a no-brainer that I volunteer us to chaperon on a field trip to a pumpkin patch for our son’s 5th grade class.

Then I remembered that I hate other people’s kids.

I don’t know WHY I can’t retain that vital piece of information, but I am forever distracted by visions of sugarplums and various other manner of happy holiday horseshit.

Since we don’t drive an SUV and can’t carry 17 children (my name is NOT Michelle Duggar), we get to take the biggest troublemakers in the class (who never end up being even remotely friendly to my son), and by the end of the day I crave the sensation of my open hand slapping the shit out of the little bastards like Lestat craves a jugular.

So, we hop in our car with our son and the bastard interloper and drive about 412 miles to the base of Krakatoa and park in the adjacent dirt mound.  I am regretting this.  By the time we made camp, I had to piss so badly that I ALMOST decided to drop trou in Pumpkinville and give the kiddies an anatomy lesson.

Fortunately, I spotted a bathroom.

Once relieved, I rejoined my group with a renewed sense of purpose.  It is Halloween-time and I am with my son and we are getting to pick a pumpkin, HOORAY!  Oh, yeah, and we have that other little fucker with us, GODDAMNIT, I keep forgetting.

Anyway, we proceed towards the pumpkin patch pausing briefly to consider a wooden sign, nailed to a telephone pole that read:  Keep Away From Bitches.  Whoever drew the little line that made the “D” into a “B” did a really good job.

Now comes the part where the pumpkin ladies yell at everyone.  “You get ONE PUMPKIN.  If you drop your ONE PUMPKIN, you CAN’T HAVE ANOTHER.  YOU can’t even BUY another one.  Don’t touch the HORSES.  The horses are working so DON’T TOUCH THEM.  Don’t TALK TO THEM.  DON’T even LOOK at the horses.  The horses HATE you.  In FACT, the PEOPLE hate you, TOO.  If you don’t get back on the WAGON after picking your ONE PUMPKIN, nobody will rescue you.  Hell, nobody will even MISS you.  The wolves will eat you, and search and rescue won’t even be able to pick up your scent.  It will be like you never existed.  You are all UGLY and STUPID.  Thanks for coming to the pumpkin patch, folks, have a GREAT TIME and STAY SAFE!”

Wow.

Onto the wagon we go, and immediately the kids start screaming.  We were like Gomez, Morticia, and Pugsley all sitting quietly and contemptuously at the back of this wagon, while the rest of the kids and parents jumped up and down and did “the wave.”  I scowled.  Mother across from us said, “You’re no fun.”  I said, “Go fuck yourself.”  It was a good time.

After about 15 exceedingly bouncy and uncomfortable minutes, we get to the meat of the outing.  Pumpkins.

Immediately our little charge runs off and vanishes into a sea of hideous children, and I couldn’t possibly care less.  We set about picking our pumpkins.  The fella picks a perfectly symmetrical, traditional pumpkin.  I take a bright orange one with a natural slit for a mouth.  My boy takes the biggest pumpkin in the whole patch, practically novelty-sized, and hoists it onto the wagon.  He is gettin’ his money’s worth.  He is my hero.

Back onto the wagon.  Shit, where is that other kid?  Oh, the horrid little panty-sniffer has latched on to some girlies… good for him.  Another wagon-ride filled with delighted screeches and involved parents.  Will they ever shut up?  JESUS CHRIST.

Stepping off the wagon, we are careful not to make eye contact with any of the horses OR the pumpkin ladies, and we roll the pumpkins to the car.  I have to piss again.  Although the bathroom was totally empty the first time I went, it has now become the dropping off point for every retarded young adult in this town.  This is obviously where they take them all to go to the bathroom.  That might explain the smell, but I digress.  Now it’s time for lunch.  I always enjoy breaking bread in a filthy tent filled with hantavirus and horse flatus.  What a great learning experience for the children!  At this point, I have pawned the little bastard off on the teacher and told her that he kept running away.  Now he doesn’t get to go on anymore field trips.

We couldn’t get back fast enough.

All in all it was basically tolerable, and my son DID get the biggest pumpkin.  He is now officially known as “the pimpkin.”

Happy Pumpkin to everyone!