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Fuck Chucky.
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Because real evil has gloves held together by Skittles.
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(Sunday Night) The pudding could have used more salt, less plutonium.
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Toby would keep his bitches in line, if he could only find some. Oh, and if he still had testicles.
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Madeline had apparently heard all the "laying pipe" "clogged drain" and "plunger love" jokes at a party the night before.
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Trogdor - burninating one gourd at a time.
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Steve: Crap Andy, I told you we shouldn't have overclocked the pumpkin past 3Ghz.
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Randall: This is punch, right? I'm not going to pull up a cupfull of eye of newt or dragon scale or anything I hope.
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Madeline decked out in her "sexy librarian that just woke up at 5 in the morning on a Sunday to travel a hundred miles in the rain and do a job for no pay" getup.
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Brett bites his lip, knowing that if he opens his mouth, the remainder of his breakfast burrito will once again try to escape.
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Sean practices his 'mildly surprised yet disinterested zombie' look. Brett prepares to tickle him.
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The lapcam gets em every time.
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Already in wardrobe, the fearsome threesome start to wonder which of them smells like hobo. And which of them smells like dead hobo.
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Zombie farts were even funnier than normal ones.
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Sean, Madeline and Brett; proud of their ragged wardrobe.