October 5, 2015.

It is now Spooktober, and I hope you are ready for a spooky story, you very nice and well-groomed person who I probably respect in some capacity.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #1:

"It's barely even Spooktober," you complain. "This is hardly spooky."

Little do you know you are about to be disembowled- which is pretty spooky.

"I do know now," you continue to bitch and moan, "You just told me. I have called the police and even if you do disembowel me I am white and middle-class as hell and they will catch you lickety split."

Well perhaps, but what if I am a GHOST or a GHOUL or an AMBULATORY SKELETON that cannot be caught in an ordinary manner?

"You are not," you explain, continuing to whine, but doing it in a very patronizing way that I find deeply annoying. "You are Jon Phillips, I have known you since that one miserable time, and you are flesh and blood and honestly getting on my g.d. nerves, I really wish you would go away."

I have no real comeback for this, and leave, staring at my feet, feeling pretty sorry for myself. What's spookier than that?