The Bathtub: Nerdish Leanings: Bastard

When Tori announced the theme for this week, I was absolutely gob-smacked. I had received my comeuppance for my previous crapulence. A few months back, you may recall a week of blog posts vaguely related to "Growth of the Soil," by Knut Hamsun. Everybody complained about it at first, but those plucky tubtributors grit their teeth, buckled down, did a little research, and wrote some kick-ass posts. That's why, this week, I've decided to swallow my pride and write about...

...pumpkins (up yours, Tori).

Did you know that there's an international pumpkin association? There is, and man, these guys have some major boners for pumpkins. I don't mean that figuratively, either.

I went to one of their meetings one time, and it was pretty messed up.

I found out about the IPA when I was shitting in a port-a-john at the county fair. Scrawled on the wall, I saw a cryptic message proclaiming a "good pumpkin time" to be had later that evening. Being a casual pumpkin fan looking to take his hobby to the next level, I figured I might as well go check it out.

A few hours later, I found myself sipping tepid coffee in a church basement with a bunch of dirty old men, waiting for Zeb to bring in the evening's "entertainment".

Zeb came in carrying a pretty little pumpkin. It already had its top open, all goo and seeds showing. With a chorus of low chuckles and the snapping of latex gloves, the assembled crowd got ready.

It was about this time that I began to put it all together. These guys were a bunch of filthy pumpkin-humpers.

But it was too late: I'd seen their faces, they'd taken me in as one of their own. I knew that if I bolted for the door, I'd find myself floating upside down in the reservoir with a pair of "pumpkin overshoes" on. Sure, it's not as bad as "concrete overshoes," but it's still not really that fun to wear pumpkins on your feet. There was nothing for it but to act natural, like I was an experienced gourd-penetrator.

Zeb gave me a knowing look and handed me the tiny, serrated knife. "Go on, finish it off," he said, licking his lips. I took the little blade in my hand and edged towards the pumpkin. At the last second, I whirled around and caught Zeb across the neck with the pumpkin knife! He went down hard, and the rest of the assembled crowd looked on in horror. Then, they all crumpled and turned into dust. It turns out that pumpkin-humpers are sort of like vampires. If you kill the head pumpkin-humper, all of his minions will die too.

Ok, sorry, that didn't make a whole lot of sense.

Justin Douglas writes "Nerdish Leanings" for The Bathtub on Monday afternoons. You can e-mail him at j.d.bathtub@gmail.com.