You want a scary story, do you? Fine. I'll give you one. There once was a bitter old man called Sir...Andrew...Shmerguson. He was very good at what he did for a living, which was managing a very successful shop of some sort — it doesn't matter what kind, so don't bother asking. But what does matter is that he was a liar and wouldn't know loyalty if it punched him in the face, which it might if it ever sees him in person again.
The moral of this story — and yes, this is a scary story with a moral, so deal with it — is that I'm coming for you Shmerguson. I don't care that you're old. The devil is old too and no one holds back on him. So you'd better watch yourself because when I'm through with you, you'll be thinking Alf-Inge Haaland got off easy.
That said...happy Halloween, everyone.
It was an unusually sunny Tuesday morning. The stairs creaked as I walked down them, which I thought was strange since I had just had a new Italian marble staircase put in. It was very expensive. I then realized that it wasn't the stairs creaking, but my knees. They always do that, so it made a lot more sense than it being the stairs.
Once I reached the first floor approximately 30 minutes later, I went to the kitchen because I was feeling a bit parched, as I usually am in the morning. I then opened the fridge so I could pour myself a nice glass of milk, but there was no milk to be found. Only orange juice. I don't like orange juice. I know other people love the stuff, but it tastes like battery acid to me and I just don't like it. Since there was no milk, I decided to give it another try, though. I poured it into the glass I had hoped to fill with delicious milk. I took a sip. I took another sip. Then I took a third sip. And it was then that I decided that I would never drink orange juice again.
To this day, I can still taste that acidic taste in the back of my throat. Though to be fair, this did just happen about an hour ago.
A world without Zlatan. That would be the scariest thing. The end.
Dun-na-na! It's time for the adventures of Fernandoooo Gingerbread! Halloween edition! Dun-na-na!
Fernando Gingerbread was once one of the most powerful knights in the whole Chocolate Bar Galaxy. But when he arrived in the Blueberry Kingdom, suddenly all his powers were gone. For years he toiled as the other knights were now able to stop all of his attacks without any effort whatsoever. The vegetable weapons he once wielded with expert precision no longer heeded his will. Eventually Fernando Gingerbread moved to the Pizza Palace, hopeful that he would leave whatever curse afflicted him behind in the Blueberry Kingdom. But his affliction persisted.
One day, Fernando Gingerbread went to see the mystical Dr. Bubblegum. As soon as Fernando Gingerbread shook Dr. Bubblegum's hand, the doctor gasped. Fernando Gingerbread then told the doctor his problem and the doctor said, "I know what is wrong with you, Fernando Gingerbread...you've been a ghost the whole time!"
At first, this made Fernando Gingerbread very sad because he could no longer be a powerful knight. But then he became friends with Haley Joel Osment and lived happily ever after.
I saw this animated documentary about underpants gnomes one time. They were these little gnomes who would come into your bedroom at night while you sleep and steal all your underpants. I found that terrifying since underpants are very important to me. Anyway, that would be the scariest story I know. Underpants gnomes.
I don't usually remember my nightmares, but this one has stayed with me for some reason. It starts off as my dreams always do — with Brazil hosting the World Cup and me scoring all of our goals and everyone so happy. But then something terrible happens. There's a collision on the pitch and my back is broken in the quarterfinal. I cannot play in the rest of the tournament. My teammates treat me like I'm dead and in their overzealous mourning, they completely forget how to play football. They lose 7-1 to a Germany team that isn't really that good. All the Germans are happy and all of the Brazilians are crying, including me. Every goal is like a dagger to my heart, which is even more broken than my back.
Then there is even more torture. A third-place match against the Netherlands that I must watch, as well. In this we lose 3-0. The Germans play Argentina, of all teams, in the final and win. Brazil finish fourth in a World Cup on home soil — even worse than 1950. At this point, I woke up, sweating and terrified. Eventually I realized that something this awful could never happen in real life. For that, I am thankful. But I still can't shake the feeling of how real it seemed at the time.
I told several of my friends in Brazil about it and they all said, "Neymar, we had the same exact nightmare." It gives me chills just thinking about it.
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