My family conversed quietly from the next room as I poked my finger through the bottom of the ring box. I bent my finger over so it appeared to lie flat against the cotton batting, and squirted ketchup around the base. Then I tip-toed into the room and presented my unsuspecting family with my “gift.”
“Ewwwwww. It’s a bloody finger!” My sisters squealed and flailed, grimaced and gagged. Mom and Dad tried to act like they believed me. But I knew deep down they knew my bloody finger was a fake.
A couple decades have passed since I tried to pull off my finger charade that day. Since then, Halloween has risen to a consumer status second only to Christmas. Revelers everywhere are ramping up to reveal gooey and gory surprises by the light of the late October moon.
Occasionally, I pass a pretty pyramid of bulging pots of mums and I think, “Maybe this year I should decorate.”
A plastic skeleton dances to “Thriller” on a superstore shelf, and I consider bringing him home.
But I can’t . . . Click here to read the rest of this week’s ghoulish gab!