Warning: the following images are pretty messed up!
It was only a matter of time. Two days, to be exact. Yesterday morning I went to the store to pick up some Very Vanilla soy milk to complement my Lucky Charms (marshmallows only). Having just done the dishes, I'd forgotten to lock the kitchen cabinets.
Jack was already gone when I returned. The damage was done. I followed the trail of empty Windex bottles and cracked whippits from the living room to my bedroom. The debris ended in front of my open laptop. Two windows were open on the screen: One showing Sasha Grey doing something unmentionable to Bree Olson, and the other showing my most recent blog post: The Twisted Tale of Jack the Crackhead Pumpkin.
My breath caught in my chest and the panic and fear set in, the same way I imagine it does at the end of a date with Chris Brown. The mentally unstable pumpkin had read my unauthorized biography. He'd seen how many hits the post had gotten, knew that his sordid exploits had been broadcast across the world. And the world was laughing at him.
I quickly started thinking about which local PCP den Jack might have wandered off to, when a sound from the back patio silenced my thoughts. The sound was brief, but LOUD. What could best be described as a cross between a cherry bomb and a weak Oprah fart. The sound of a life ending too soon.
It was then I knew that Jack must have made his way to the roof of my building. That the escape he needed couldn't be achieved by any amount of sweet, sweet embalming fluid. He needed a permanent solution. I ran out the back door of my basement apartment and saw what was left of poor Jack. As you can tell from the above picture, it wasn't pretty. The next few minutes were a blur -- paramedics, sirens, police tape, old ladies tearing their hair out, children weeping -- but luckily (or unfortunately) a local Manhattan Valley slimeball named Brad had been trying to videotape his neighbor in the shower and accidentally captured Jack's fall in its entirety. The following video is extremely upsetting.
Reports of a suicide note are unconfirmed. If one surfaces, I'll be the first to report it. Until then, though, Jack really is gone forever. A cold lesson for pumpkins and pumpkin enablers everywhere.
***
A few hours later, E! News heard about the tragedy and sent Ryan Seacrest to interview Paris and Lindsay. The two were hanging out at their friend Khloé the Gator's house, slurping down White Russians by the pool.
It was only a matter of time. Two days, to be exact. Yesterday morning I went to the store to pick up some Very Vanilla soy milk to complement my Lucky Charms (marshmallows only). Having just done the dishes, I'd forgotten to lock the kitchen cabinets.
Jack was already gone when I returned. The damage was done. I followed the trail of empty Windex bottles and cracked whippits from the living room to my bedroom. The debris ended in front of my open laptop. Two windows were open on the screen: One showing Sasha Grey doing something unmentionable to Bree Olson, and the other showing my most recent blog post: The Twisted Tale of Jack the Crackhead Pumpkin.
My breath caught in my chest and the panic and fear set in, the same way I imagine it does at the end of a date with Chris Brown. The mentally unstable pumpkin had read my unauthorized biography. He'd seen how many hits the post had gotten, knew that his sordid exploits had been broadcast across the world. And the world was laughing at him.
I quickly started thinking about which local PCP den Jack might have wandered off to, when a sound from the back patio silenced my thoughts. The sound was brief, but LOUD. What could best be described as a cross between a cherry bomb and a weak Oprah fart. The sound of a life ending too soon.
It was then I knew that Jack must have made his way to the roof of my building. That the escape he needed couldn't be achieved by any amount of sweet, sweet embalming fluid. He needed a permanent solution. I ran out the back door of my basement apartment and saw what was left of poor Jack. As you can tell from the above picture, it wasn't pretty. The next few minutes were a blur -- paramedics, sirens, police tape, old ladies tearing their hair out, children weeping -- but luckily (or unfortunately) a local Manhattan Valley slimeball named Brad had been trying to videotape his neighbor in the shower and accidentally captured Jack's fall in its entirety. The following video is extremely upsetting.
Reports of a suicide note are unconfirmed. If one surfaces, I'll be the first to report it. Until then, though, Jack really is gone forever. A cold lesson for pumpkins and pumpkin enablers everywhere.
***
A few hours later, E! News heard about the tragedy and sent Ryan Seacrest to interview Paris and Lindsay. The two were hanging out at their friend Khloé the Gator's house, slurping down White Russians by the pool.
"It's like, totally sad," Paris squeaked. "Jack was super cute, I guess, but now he's almost as irrelevant as my career."
Lindsay lifted her head out of her drink, gave Seacrest her best Botox pout. "Who the heck is Jack?" she asked, clearly confused. "And why don't you look like my usual dealer? Where's Julio?"
What Seacrest didn't realize was that he shouldn't have done the interview at all. Because Khloé the Gator hadn't had anything to eat in almost an hour, and her trainer Lamar was too busy playing basketball to feed her. So while Seacrest was busy with Lindsay, Khloé slid her massive, Jabba-like body out of the pool, snuck up behind him and screamed "Garghghghghahhh!!!!" in the creepiest baby voice imaginable. She swallowed his head in one gulp, then spit out the plastic pieces.
RIP Ryan Seacrest. He never saw it coming. Sort of like Jack. But not really.
The End (maybe)
