Is there anything more pleasant than an afternoon in the crisp autumn air? It’s the perfect way to spend the day with your family. Nope, there’s nothing finer than enjoying nature’s bounty and bringing home . . .

A Bushel of the Damned!!!

Move over Johnny Appleseed, little Joanie Badseed is on the scene. Clearly, she’s just caused untold carnage in the orchard. In the movies, this is the part where the end credits would roll and we’d gesticulate wildly at the screen trying to warn her parents.

Can you hear the apples screaming, Clarice?

I see a lot of bad sequels in this girl’s future. Panic in the Pumpkin Patch. The Strawberry Field Massacre. Children of the Corn Maze. Pick a Peck of Pickled Death . . .

There’s an old adage that says “there are no atheists in foxholes.” Judging from the list of religious intonations that poured out of my mouth the very second I stumbled across these twisted playthings of the Dark Lord, I’d say that adage also holds true for anyone in their presence.

Toto the Clown, seen at the bottom, seems evil enough on his own. His apparent possession of two mouths, both most certainly full of needle sharp teeth meant for penetrating tender flesh, is enough to make your skin crawl right off your body and into the next room. But add his pal, Tony, and you may as well ask Old Scratch himself for a play date. Did I mention that according to the pattern, Tony is an Organ Grinder? The very thought of him snatching my liver and stuffing it into his monkey-powered gore machine while playing a merry tune is just too much to bear. I’m going to need a little lay down.

“My, what big gunshot wounds you have.” smirked Little Red Riding Hood as she skinned and cleaned the wolf, carefully turning his pelt inside-out. With her task complete, she kissed her elderly grandmother goodbye, packed up her basket and shotgun, and headed home with her brand new riding hood.

. . . and so, Bear-Proof Sweaters Inc. was forced to cease production and close it’s doors forever.

Bionic hair? Check. Snazzy neckerchief? Check. Rib-crushing, diaphragm-constricting leather belt for my sleek new body-hugging cardigan? Ch . . . ~gasp~ . . . can’t . . . inhale . . . ~thud~