Sassy.

This week, upon coming out of my house to check the mail on a particular beautiful, crisp and cool fall day, I discovered the following on my front stoop:
Except it was half eaten, sitting there looking bloated, pale and sad on my doorstep. At first this was alarming, because, as my most paranoid roommate informs me, there has been a rash of "people hanging out on other people's doorsteps" in our neighborhood and obviously we'd been hit.

But then I got to thinking. What do we have to fear from the mysterious lover of spicy prepackaged pickles? I won't lie, our doorstep is inviting, probably there is no more perfect place to enjoy a giant dick sized "sassy" pickle. And I mean that...on so many different levels.

I do wonder what interrupted him mid-pickle revelry and caused him to cast aside such a friendly pickle, with her sassy flower peddler hat and pink Carmen Miranda shoes. ON MY FRONT STOOP.

Seriously, the ultra-ghetto sack of douche that caused me to have to endure the stench of spicy pickle on my doorstep in the midst of the most glorious fall day of the year better not come to my door asking to shovel my snow or clean my car anytime soon. "Ding Dong! Do you need your sidewalk shoveled for $25?" "Did you eat a pickle on my doorstep this past September? Yes? Then no, I don't."