Great Pumpkin!

Greetings, WYMOP readers!

It’s October, and though for me as a horror writer that means Halloween, it means something a little different to every single food company out there that distributes in the United States.

Pumpkin. Pumpkin everything.

So today was the first time I went food shopping in October 2016, and I was reminded of the Great Pumpkin Takeover just as soon as I pulled into the lot and tried to find a parking space.

There weren’t a lot of options left, but luckily I drive a Mini. I managed to wedge myself into one of the cart corrals, climbed out the sunroof, and made my way past the bulbous orange gourds, kids scrambling about screaming “I want this one! I want the biggest one!” as parents measured trunks to see just what kind of pumpkin poundage they could handle.

As I entered the store, though, I was buoyed up by the thought that yes, one of my favorite things is part of this seasonal pumpkin bullshit: Market Basket Pumpkin Donuts™. Yessiree Bob, just imagining slapping two or three boxes of those babies in the cart and cracking one of them open on the drive home was enough to put a bounce in my step. I wheeled my cart along quickly, deftly avoiding the other pumpkin-crazed shoppers as they stumbled along with glazed eyes, slowly filling their carriages with every pumpkined-up item imaginable.

I, however, resisted the temptation, keeping a sharp focus on the one pumpkiny item I’d set my sights on as I whipped through the shopping list.

In Frozen Foods, I—with difficulty—turned a blind eye.

In the cereal aisle, I breathed deep, and remained calm—though not so calm as the drooling-faced zombie man who was trying to put just one more box of pumpkin Captain Crunch™ into his cart, to give him an even dozen.

I made my way past cookies . . .

 . . . and coffees . . .

 . . . okay, that’s going a bit far.

Thank God I don’t drink.

Seriously? Have you lost your damn mind?

But finally, finally I’d made my way through the whole pumpkin—uh, store, and I was rounding the bend toward the registers. And right there by the registers they had their seasonal display, where I’d be able to give in and shovel in a few boxes of . . . of . . .

What the—?

Noooooooo!

Son of a bitch.

Talk to you later!