Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater has joined the countless ranks of those who’ve OD’ed on pumpkin flavored shit.
“Listen,” he bellowed, “I earned the ‘Pumpkin Eater’ name. I threw down at the pumpkin eater game like no other. But the season is longer and rules have changed. Used to be a little pie or bread, or even a delightful pumpkin spice latte—but today? From Labor Day to Thanksgiving it’s everything—yogurt, bagels, beer, waffles, salsa, toaster strudel, popcorn, cereal, condoms…ok, not really condoms, but is it surprising so many can’t handle all this pumpkin spice goodness?”
“Sure, some people can pace themselves and be perfectly fine. Others, like me, will binge ‘til it’s out of their system—the upside of waking in a pool of pumpkin-spiced vomit is now even the sight of pumpkins will make me gag. But others get hooked, don’t know when or how to quit, and just fall apart. And the Christmastime peppermint, gingerbread, or eggnog-flavored shit will not cut it. There’s no help out there for those people and it’s just plain sad.
Then, Peter Peter got uncharacteristically reticent when asked if this is what happened to his ex-wife. “Yeah, I had a wife. Yeah, I put her in a pumpkin shell. And yeah, I kept her very well…for about two minutes. Then she wasn’t very well anymore. Butternut squash clinics have long waitlists.”
He wouldn’t provide more detail except to say, “We had a whole Sid-Nancy, Rihanna-Drake type situation. Another casualty of pumpkin spice season. No one leaves the life unscathed.”