Mausoleum, Sweet Mausoleum

Well, I am not the culinary blog type of fellow, but I simply must tell you about my dinner last night! It was a delightful, harmonious melange of blood soup filled with steaming, meaty human eyeballs. How they frolicked like swimming toddlers each time we plunged in the spoons! At the base of the plate there was a garnish of severed fingers with stewed brain dipping sauce. Yum-my. I won't even get into the spinal cord remoulade -- there simply are not words enough. For dessert, my wife served chopped earlobes sprinkled over iced entrails. Oh -- the ecstasy of the taste buds.

Afterwards, we retreated to the torture room where we dusted the skeletons (always a chore around the metatarsals) and then tapped our feet in time to the panicked screams of our suffering captives. Ha. Good times. Great for the digestion. Nothing says "home" like the creaking of the ropes on the rack as a loved one cranks the capstan. Why, I remember my grandmother shutting children into the oven (oh, they were strays she found in the forest) -- she would always sing the same song in her cute, emaciated, wavering little soprano: "A Fat Little Treat For Grandma to Eat." Memories . . .

After our post-dinner rest, my wife and I got the blood-caked axes out of the umbrella stand and went out for a twilight walk, looking for someone to dismember. On our journey we would wave the axes menacingly at passing kids. Fortunately, we happened upon that annoying fellow down the street who cuts his grass at eight on Sunday mornings, long before we have to get up and go to black mass. (We'll be sleeping in this week.)

So, after that -- shall we say -- "exercise," we two climbed into our cozy coffins and lapsed into hibernation. Oh, it only lasts until the blood lust kicks in again in the morning, but we get the rest we need.

Sigh . . .

Can someone please tell me why talk like this is okay once a year? What is it about Halloween that makes severed limbs in casual conversation acceptable? I mean we get used to it and all, and tolerate it because we smile while we say it, but doesn't anyone ever worry about what the joy we take in the all of this says about us as people? For God's sake, everyone: BEWARE YOURSELVES!!!!!! The day is coming . . .

Where does it come from?