. . . . is how Adam described any front porch decorated with more than a bale of hay. Even the flickering glow of a benign jack-o-latern was enough to keep him from the inevitable bounty of
treats awaiting him on the other side of the front door. He managed to find a few houses that met his non-goul criteria where he scored what must have been nearly every “Reece’s Peanut Butter Butter Cup” in the neighborhood – well, except for those that managed to hide themselves behind the
decorations of Satan himself. He then returned home where he gorged himself according to our newly sanction house rule of “all the candy you can eat on Halloween night”. Unlike his usual nature, he didn’t even stop to ask about the contents of each treat and instead was opening his next morsel, sucking up chocolate drool, before he had even finished chewing his last. In the end the count was seven, at which point he simply picked up his trick-or-treat bag, announced that he was done and retreated to the family room to watch A Pup Named Scooby-Doo – the one where “they are trick-or-treating just like I did”.
decorations of Satan himself. He then returned home where he gorged himself according to our newly sanction house rule of “all the candy you can eat on Halloween night”. Unlike his usual nature, he didn’t even stop to ask about the contents of each treat and instead was opening his next morsel, sucking up chocolate drool, before he had even finished chewing his last. In the end the count was seven, at which point he simply picked up his trick-or-treat bag, announced that he was done and retreated to the family room to watch A Pup Named Scooby-Doo – the one where “they are trick-or-treating just like I did”.
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