"Feather me this, feather me that. The feather

"Feather me this, feather me that. The feather weaver has got your back," the madman chuckled, his arms frollicking and his eyebrows dancing. There were feathers... everywhere.

They watched on the screen until their leader issued a command: "Send in the were-hamster." Silence, until someone said, "You don't mean, GARTH?"

And the Were-Hamster dropped from the ceiling, he was wearing tiny chaps, a cowboy hat and then the DJ punched in, "Low Places" by Garth Brooks. The festive but evil line dancing

was cute, but life-threatening nonetheless. This wasn't the strangest Halloween party that Bob had ever been to, but it was certainly the most realistic. Kind of. At that moment, a

Banshee he had been hitting on a few minutes ago over by the Head Bobber started shrieking loud enough to raise the dead. She woke the ornaments that turned out to be vampire bats.

After about two and ahlf minutes of full throttle shrieking, she stopped and turned to he opponent. "Thank you, HIllary." said the moderator. "Your turn, Mr. Trump. Can YOU imitate

The collective conscious of 500 years of politicians? Trump thought for a moment, pulled out a shotgun and his skewed brains decorated the wall. The moderator was impressed.

"I guess that answers that question," he chuckled. The now deceased, pulp headed Trump once again lost the popular vote but won the election. Strangely, the brainless corpse didn't

seem a bit surprised, even as his Euro-zombie wife dragged his lifeless body across the dance floor at his inaugural ball, leaving an orange trail on the marble tiles. "Make Americ

a safe for the Dancing Dead!" she spelled out in neon orange, gasping when Baryshnikov's corpse swept her up & twirled her about, jarring her entrails in a truly moving performance