It’s that time of year again: the crows caw ominously, bats make whatever sound bats make, and, of course, the ghosts come back to haunt their old stomping grounds.
One ghoul, though, Jededaiah Bronson Cummingsworth, Class of 1895, has noted that his afterlife has been cursed with visions that no man — dead or alive — should ever have to see. Just last week, and every day since then, he has been forced to watch the clumsy sex of a new couple in the FloMo computer cluster.
After getting past his standard rant about the end times, the secrets of all things divine and infernal, how to actually lock in on midterms, and the epistemological root of all evil, Cummingsworth weighed in on the situation. “That amorous rite is constant,” he began, “for mine own sanity, I beg thee, prithee endeth mine own mis’ry.”
Cummingsworth continued in a fit of desperation, “The sir and madam bethink it’s ectoplasm. For heaven’s sake, they think it’s ectoplasm. Moth’rfuck’rs, it’s cum.”
The conversation quickly took a darker turn. “If I has’t to gaze thee two becometh one once more, I’m coming backeth to life just to killeth myself again.” He began muttering in tongues about the secret to everlasting life, but that’s boring shit and we’re here to talk about sex. The nasty-ass sex of the couple in the computer cluster, tormenting the spirits of the season.
