I’ve been absorbing (Gourdians don’t read, we absorb), with great interest, this recent bipedal hand wringing over the perceived violent and disgusting end that befalls some Gourdians. “Woe the lot of the poor Pumpkin Person,” they wail, “How awful to suffer the carving knife!” Well, I want to set the record straight; you couldn’t be more wrong. Here’s the deal.
The highest honor that can befall a Gourdian is to enter the proud ranks of The Jack. Few are chosen, but they are the finest of our race. The most unfortunate of Gourdians have only the ignoble future of rotting in cold, open fields: forgotten, ignored, made as mere mulch.
Those of us with more mathematical bent can enter the Brotherhood of Pi; and these are many, some canned, some fresh. Consumption by bipeds is a glorious end; certainly preferable to consumption by quads (consumption by hexes, or worse, is almost as bad as rotting). Certain of our citizens belong to other consumption sects: the Breads, the Cakes or the Cookies. Truly, any fodder status at least fulfills some useful station in life.
But to become a Jack is the ultimate goal of any Gourdian. Those few who make the grade and are selected go on to become the revered of our nation. Each selected by a biped who stooped down to claim one of us for their own. Each transformed into a unique magic creature to guard the bipedal demesnes. It is the highest calling of any Gourdian.
I’d also like to say a few words about, so called, Pumpkin Porn.
Here, too, the bipedal view may miss the mark when it comes to Gourdians. Remember that we’re born under open skies and live our lives naked under those same skies. For us, when you’re talking about the birds and bees, this is literally the case.
And if there’s one thing you can say about Gourdians, we’re an earthy species. We have no real concept of personal space or privacy; there’s just too many of us sucking on one vine (if you catch my drift).
So remember, for good luck, Carve a Jack! And kiss a Gourdian!