Decorative Gourd Season: September 21-28, 2023
Write a piece about autumn, using a style similar to or inspired by the classic McSweeney’s submission, “It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers.” (Cursing not required, but strongly encouraged.)
Due September 28 by 7:00 p.m.
The Submissions:
by Captain Quillard
LISTEN UP, DIPSHITS: IT’S TIME FOR SOME APPLE PICKING
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Do you assholes feel that crisp-ass fucking breeze? Can you smell the goddamned heavenly scent of nostalgia and foliaceous fucking decay in the air? Do you know what that means, dickbags? It means it’s time for some muthafuckin’ apple picking, douchenozzles!
My wife and I cannot fucking wait to gather up little Brayleigh and Kaelynn, toss them in the Toyota Highlander, and head off for a three-hour drive down some picturesque fucking back roads that look like they’re straight out of some goddamned autumnal storybook, while we listen to the “MILF (Man, I Love Fall)” playlist the wife put together on Spotify, filled with fucking wistful, moody-ass, Fall-feeling tunes from Iron & Wine or Fleet Foxes or some shit. Look out the window at the non-stop pastoral-ass scenery. Fucking bucolic, if you ask me.
Before we know it, we’ll be pulling into the parking lot at some sort of fucking delightfully ramshackle spot called “Hidden Meadow Farms” or “Golden Orchard Glen” or fucking “Grampa Joe’s Olde Tyme General Store” – an Arcadian fucking paradise where, for the goddamned bargain of $45 per person, they’ll hand you a rusty tin bucket and a rickety wooden step stool, and let you spend two and a half hours of fall-tastic family fucking fun, doing the hard manual labor you’re usually content to let immigrants do. But not today, motherfuckers! Today you’re more than happy to shell out $180 and work your ass off to collect the same 28 apples in a field teeming with fucking bees that you could’ve picked up at goddamned Kroger for nine dollars and sixty-two fucking cents if you didn’t give a fuck about creating some kickass seasonal memories with kith and motherfucking kin.
Besides, these are Honey Crisp apples, the be-all-fucking-end-all of fucking apple varietals. Do not come at me with your weak-as-shit Granny Smiths or your Red Motherfucking Delicious bullshit. I won’t fucking have it. We get one shot at doing this season right, and if you think I’m wasting my fucking time on some subpar dog crap like a goddamned McIntosh or – worse yet – a fucking Pink Lady, you are out of your motherfucking insane, Gala-loving mind.
Just think of all the delicious-ass, absolute fucking myriad autumn-tasting treats we’ll make with these fresh-as-fuck goddamned apples we pick with our own fucking hands. Or, at least we would have made, had we not stopped by the fucking charming and whimsical-ass gift shop on our way out of the orchard, where we are guaran-damn-teed to spend about $300 on apple cider, apple dumplings, apple turnovers, apple pie, apple jelly, apple jam, apple preserves, and apple fucking butter – as if we have any idea what the goddamned hell to do with fucking apple butter – so now the apples we picked will sure as shit be left in the garage to rot and attract some scary-ass fucking vermin.
But, who cares, fuckheads?! It’s fucking fall, and if you’re not some kind of psychopath or anti-Autumn asshole, you go fucking apple picking. Let’s do it this very fucking weekend. The wife will break out her knee-high leather boots and cable-knit goddamned sweater to wear under a designer puffer vest or possibly a Burberry-print shawl, and I will find that $160 flannel I special-ordered online and match it with a brand-new pair of Timberlands so I look like some kind of fucking rustic goddamn woodsman or hipster lumberjack. We’ll dress Kaelynn like she’s a turn of the century train conductor or some shit, and Brayleigh will be sporting an old timey postboy outfit that makes him look like he’s fucking Mumford or one of his goddamned folksy-ass sons. This is turning out to be autumnal as ever-loving fuck.
Happy apple-picking season, morons!
by Captain Quillard
THE DAYS OF PUMPKIN SPICE ARE UPON US, ASSHOLES
Awwwww, yyyeeaah. It’s time, fuckwads. We’ve waited patiently through eight to nine fucking soul-crushing months where our beverages and foods and air fresheners and Chap-sticks and fucking LIVES are, for some inexplicable goddamn reason, NOT flavored like seasonally-appropriate pie. Probably because there is no god.
But, now… OH, fucking now! Now is the time we’ve all been waiting for, fucksticks. Every year at this time, when the temperature starts to drop and all the months and weather reports start ending in fucking “ber,” THAT’s when it finally fucking pays to have motherfucking taste buds. These are our salad days, if salad tasted like goddamned allspice and a warm fucking hug. This is the hallowed holy season where Cinnamon and Ginger are not just the names of my favorite strippers, but also essential ingredients in that ubiquitous wunder-fucking-kind of glorious fall flavors: Pumpkin Fucking Spice, motherfuckers!
And I hope you’re ready. Ooohhhh, I hope you’re fucking ready, shitheads. For the next three months it will be inescapable. You’ll be up to your assholes in pumpkin spice coffee, pumpkin spice tea, pumpkin spice Pepsi, pumpkin spice mayonnaise, pumpkin spice broccoli casserole, fucking Arby’s pumpkin spice roast beef, pumpkin spice Tik Tok dances, and enough pumpkin spice candles to hold a goddamned séance and talk to the ghost of the fucking Great Pumpkin through your kid’s pumpkin spice flavored Ouija board.
And I don’t want to hear any fucking complaints. Your forefathers didn’t slave away in the West Virginia clove and nutmeg mines, dying from Cinnamon Lung to harvest the gold of the fucking spice trade and provide us with our national flavor reserves for many Pumpkin Spice Seasons to come, just so you could shit all over them with your comments about it being “basic” or “too pervasive” or “fucking goddamned enough with the pumpkin spice already.” You’re too fucking late, assholes – this fucking spicy pumpkin carriage has sailed… or something. Pumpkin spice is an unstoppable goddamn force, and I’m here to fucking tell you it’s a force for fucking good.
Submit to it. Recognize when you’re fucking beaten and bow down before your new, fall-flavored godhead. Feel your soul carried away on a sea of Libby’s pumpkin puree and maple syrup, floating above on the wispy Cool-Whip clouds of autumnal bliss. Pour yourself a cup of leaf-peeping, equinox-celebrating, sweater-weather-welcoming fucking goodness, and feel the post-summer ennui and seasonal affective disorder take you over like Germany invading goddamned Poland. Curl up in an afghan and sip your favorite fucking pumpkin beverage while rewatching the Halloween episode of Quantum Leap where the narrator says, “But tonight, there were no tricks. There were no treats. Only death.” Make a bowl of pumpkin spice pasta and fix yourself a pumpkin spice Old Fashioned and lounge around in a tub scented with pumpkin spice bath bombs until you’ve become autumn itself. Have your first name legally changed to Autumn. Form a Spice Girls cover band so people will call you Pumpkin Spice. Submit. Obey. Conform. Embrace pumpkin spice or die. There is no other choice, fuckwits.
Happy fucking Pumpkin Spice Season, turd blossoms!
by The Kisilgliere
Inspired by a recent rewatching of “The Craft”
All The Teen Witches Are 49
We fucked with the patriarchy in the carpool lane.
Used mind-control on the deli guy, the bank-teller, the meter maid.
We spent four days chanting to raise from the dead… an old favorite from the Ben & Jerry’s graveyard
Every Friday, we gathered in secret, to watch the rose ceremony.
All the teen witches are 49.
We traded dog collars…for collared dogs, designer breeds that don’t shed.
Our rituals moved to the bathroom sink, magic confined to retinol cream, the brightening serum.
Our daughters steal our old doc martens and forget they ever had autonomy over their bodies.
All the teen witches are 49.
by Anonymous Frau Redux
It’s fall y’all
Oh my gourd! They’re everywhere! Need I mention the pumpkins, faux leaves and 70’s decade colors that adorn the aisles?
Admittedly, I fell for some of it. Purchased a weathered looking wooden pumpkin for the mantle and an orange vase for little fairy lights. Okay, I bought an hour glass too. “I’ll get you, my pretty!” and biscuits for my little dog too!
“Blessed” decor and signage is in every stinking store. It’s the season to be “thankful.” Are you ready to spend that wad of cash (squirreled away since July when we finally managed to pay off last year’s festive credit season)?
I can’t find the appropriate sign for my decor. You know, “shit luck” or “hoping for the best but preparing for the worst!”
Pumpkin spice, football season and unpacking last winter’s attire. Need to have my closet temp checked, pretty sure that shit shrunk due to heat.
Fall brings cool mornings, then sweltering by 3pm. Oklahoma weather is a fickle bitch. Every season, without fail you’ll get spanked. Swirly winds with buckets of hail yanking down trees, ripping out shingles or tossing pool toys about the neighborhood and the next day- it’s hotter than Satan’s balls with no hint of a cool breeze. Most of the time you’re “thankful” it wasn’t worse.
In reality, no wind is good if the neighbor’s aerobic septic system smells like fireworks and Satan’s farts. It doesn’t blow off “treated” waste water overnight like any sensible person would schedule. Nope. Their shit sprays every few hours and they’re “working” on the issue for over an effing month. Suddenly it’s fixed, or should I say we haven’t smelled it- since the sports outing? Hubby witnessed their family fun and games soccer time while grilling last weekend. A few minutes later he went out to find no people, but the filth fountains were spewing. Huh. Your shit does stink, doesn’t it? Is it wrong to be a tad joyous about a shit shower after contacting them several times over the last few weeks? A month of our outdoor time ruined by aerosolized sulfury dookey finally ends due to “unexpected precipitation.”
The leaves change, drifting to the ground, screwing with the drainage and getting stuck in crevices that I’ll hesitate to stick my hand into next spring. After wintering, freezing, thawing and critters sheltering or ambling through the muck, I’ll need to invest in new yard gloves. The worn pointy finger won’t protect my digits for knitting season. Who am I kidding? When isn’t it knitting season?
Add gardening gloves to the shopping list.
Pick up some candy, for you or the tricky treaters.
Also, here’s your reminder to schedule a clinical exam or squishin’ of your “chesticles” as an October public service announcement for breast cancer awareness month. Some of us are kind of exempt from that. Been there, done that. I’ll wear my own damn t-shirt, thank you very much.
Just around the bend is the annual November thankful feast, not that the turkey population appreciates it. Carbs as far as the eye can see, extending all the way to the work related holiday party and beyond!
Tree up before turkey day or after? Either way- the glass baubles will be such a treat for my Great Pyrenees’ tail. Swing, batter, batter, swing! Anything else that falls on the floor will be shown to us through clenched teeth and must be exchanged for an equal or higher value dog treat.
The eyes say it all for our dog. We’ve danced this dance many times.
“See what happened? I could’ve eaten this, smuggled into the yard for burial, only to be discovered when you mow in the spring, so you can celebrate my genius again… I’m giving you the opportunity to pick up your toys human. Use that opposable thumb you flash around all the friggin’ time to get me a treat. No tricks, bitch- or the ornament gets it!”
It’s fall y’all! Oh my gourd…
Next Week’s Assignment:
Take short video clips (one to ten seconds each) or photos as you go about your week (or just one day of your week), and create a video or photo collage of the “art” you experienced in your week/day.