My puppy acrobatted through the park, running circles and figure eights and Mandelbrot sets, from a sprint into a barrel roll and back into a sprint without losing momentum, kicking up grass in her wake. So I got out my camera.
Except then she veered towards me, writhed into my lap, and shed a colony’s worth of fire ants onto me. It turns out the line between “being cute” and “being eaten alive” is disconcertingly thin.
It read, “We do not celebrate Halloween. We celebrate Jesus.”
Soon after, they simplified it to, “We do not celebrate Halloween.”
I wonder what made ‘em lose their faith all of a sudden…? Oh, well. One out of two ain’t bad.
And hey, maybe they’ll wake up rambling about the Spirits of Halloween Past, Present, and Future, and pay me a shilling to buy the largest pumpkin in the window! Y’know, the one as big as me!
Forget Seinfeld–theme parks are unique in telling a type of story where nothing happens.
They feature neither dialogue nor action. There are no visible protagonists, objectives, or antagonists. The events began, escalated, and resolved long before we arrived.
These stories are forensic. They leave archeological clues that imply what happened, which lets us assemble the pieces together into a narrative.
Meat + [SPACE] + lovers + [APOSTROPHE] + [SPACE] + pizza
The most popular form.
Meat + [SPACE] + lovers + [SPACE] + pizza
Even the Ninja Turtles would be disgusted by that topping.
Meat + [SPACE] + lover + [APOSTROPHE] + s + [SPACE] + pizza
Give that pizza back to Meat Lover. After all, he would do anything for pizza.
Meat + [HYPHEN] + lovers + [SPACE] + pizza
Eat up. It’s what Mr. and Mrs. Salami would’ve wanted.
Tyrannosaurus Pogo Stick 