Gourdmember (or the Art of Gourd Husbandry)

I get home for the weekly pre-Saphir clean-up, greet Steve in the lounge and head towards my room when 'Oh my splintery Jesus!' there's the ugliest fucking thing ever plonked in the middle of the floor. It's ugly incarnate: puce with warty protuberances all over It, throbbing with a glistening malignancy, round but not spherical, grey and mottled and veiny... my first thought is I'm a bad person: our long-suffering livingroom's developed a tumour. So I finally collect my system-shocked vocabulary to comment about It in the form of "duuuooooooode?" And Steve emerges from his room and says "Oh yes. Isn't It foul? I bought on the walk home from the bar last night. I don't really know what It is. Doesn't It look like an elephant shat in the middle of the house?"
"Uncannily so. I think I know what It is," I reply, "I think It's a gourd. Man, Steve, I'm so glad you were in the house when I met It."

Since that pivottal moment, our lives have been filled with affections for all things gourd. We did shots of vodka and smoked It up. It's a joyous little goblin and It's wormed Its knobbly way so far into our hearts that we've decided to collect a few more, you know, become gourdeners (gourd-ranchers, gourd-wranglers, gourd-tamers, gourd-handlers, Super Gourd Bros., gourdoliers, gourd-keepers, gourdheads, Supplicants to the Good Gourd Almighty etc. [we don't feel we need to 'define' or justify our relationship to It, ok?!]) I have said/typed/thought/dreamt the word GOURD perhaps 500 times in the last 12 hours. If you still can't picture It, It approximates a rancid, partially deflated, sea-sick pumpkin. Or perhaps 'a constipated limbless toad' might be a better discription, as I swear It pulses when you don't look at It directly. Steve suggested we be nice to It, as It's been through a drastic habitat change and we're not quite sure as to what powers it may possess. I'm thinking evil ones. As he MSNed to me today: "I get the feeling the gourd chose me." We're definitely going to have a whole spectrum of gourds soon (we'll likely start the first Canadian SPCG [Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Gourds]), and we'll be holding varied activities to keep them amused and socialized. Perhaps a Gourd Ugly Pageant or a 3-meter hurdles race or a few Wine & Cheese & Gourd parties. Pictures of the gourd(s) are to follow in subsequent posts. We'd also appreciate suggestions for gourd names... (so far we've been thinking either Jane or Glourdia...)

So, well done Steve for finding us a swampcore merchandising scheme. I hope I didn't give away what I'm getting people for Christmas in this post... if I didn't then here goes, you'll be getting: a gourd.
!!!SWAMPGOURD!!!

Gourd Free Zone:

Today, I found another way to determine how I'm feeling: my spitting accuracy. If I'm in a gourd mood, I can hit a flattened, blackened squidge of sidewalk gum from about 10 paces. If in a bad mood, I can't seem to get it past my chin. "I'm from Holland. Isn't that weird!?!"