Buckle up, fellow Americans. The caravan is on its way.

Any hour now—any minute—hundreds if not thousands of tiny masked weirdos will spill into our neighborhood streets, invade our porches, bang down our doors—and change the face of this great nation forever.

There’s a strange chill in the air—can you feel it? Beth says that’s just the time of year, but I don’t think so. Feels different. Like the calm before a storm of tiny weirdos dressed like Elsa from "Frozen."


Beth says I’m making mountains out of molehills, but does she spend all day in the basement keeping up with the news? No, she does not. Says she’s too busy changing my sheets and organizing my pills.

Dale gets it—says the whole thing scares him to bits. “We have no idea who these little people are,” says Dale. “What houses they coming from? Nothing.”

Beth says most likely they mean no harm. But I’m like, how can you say that when you don’t know who “they” is? I heard reports they’re armed with eggs, toilet paper, pebbles from the driveway—you name it. Well, Beth heard that and got real quiet.

“What kinda eggs?” says Beth.

I told her hop to it and bring me the AK.

Well, she might be scared, but not me. Tell you the truth, I’m P.O.’d. These tiny weirdos are out to take candy away from deserving Americans. Our people are wanting Tootsie Pops. Our citizens need Hot Tamales. And they're about to go to a bunch of Trick-or-Traitors?

Not on my watch.

My neighbor Phil’s like: you better relax before you kill your damn self with a heart attack. Well, I told Dale that and he just laughed. “Phil’s the kinda guy who leaves an untended bowl of candy on his front porch with a handwritten sign that says: ‘Please, take one only.’”

Other day I looked away from the TV and saw an autumn leaf drift by the skylight: just this bright, beautiful shade of orange. Made me think of our President. After dinner, Beth reads to me from his Twitter, which I find soothing. Last night he wrote: “These tiny losers MUST BE STOPPED! I have placed an executive order to scoop out the contents of Mitch McConnell’s head, light a candle inside, and leave it on the White House steps! This is a NATIONAL EMERGENCY!!!”

As you may imagine, I slept well that night.

Beth tells me Kimmy, the gal who does her nails, says Trick-or-Traitors are just, “little kids having fun.” They been doing this every year for as long as she can remember, says Kimmy, and she’s never had an issue. In fact, most of them are, “real polite.”

Well, I practically choked on my Jell-O when I heard that.

“Listen,” I tell Beth. “You come to my house dressed up like a Wolfman Ewok gypsy ghost, who’s to say that’s not exactly who you are? You telling me behind every mask there’s an innocent little kid with a sweet tooth?”

Mainstream media nonsense.

I for one am not about to waste my time wondering if behind all that face paint there’s an actual human being.

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