Ca August 1986, we bought a townhouse. The front door had an impressive creak in the hinges, like "Tales of the Crypt" squeaky. My wife bought me these gigantic gloves that had red fingernails, and warts all over. I opened the door slowly, making sure it squeaked abominably, with those glove quaking madly. Kids ran away screaming, lobotomizing themselves with the (frozen) Twizzlers and the orange-and-black candy canes that had been previously dropped in their trick-or-treat bags. The part about the warts might have been exaggerated.
If you get to thinking you’re a person of some influence, try ordering somebody else’s dog around.
