The Painter

Oh, hia, boys and girls, I was just about to watch my favorite Christmas Film: THE POLAR AX-PRESS! This movie sure TRAINS YOU to ride on CHOKE-A-MOTIVES aha-ha-ha-ha-ha. But, while I'm SPEWING THIS, take a gander at this tale, about somebody who had to BRUSH UP on his job, as... 
One evening, back in the early-winter of 1944, a young lady stood in a living-room of a house up, in Brooklyn, New York City. She was dusting a grand piano and her telephone rang. The young lady answered it. "Hello" she said and the raspy-voice of an old man responded over the phone, "hello, ma'am, I am the painter your Husband hired to come over to paint your living room. I will be at your home there at 8:00p.m. sharp". Then, the lady heard him hang up. The young lady walked into the kitchen and saw a young man sitting at the kitchen-table. He drank a bottle of Jim Beam Whiskey. "Jim, honey, did you hire a painter to come and paint our living room tonight?" she said to the young man, asking him. "Why, no, Paula dear" Jim said, answering her. "Oh, the man must have had the wrong phone number then" Paula said and kissed Jim on his cheek. 
Soon, Paula and Jim's doorbell rang and the grandfather-clock within their living room chimed: "8:00 p.m." then. Jim was reading a newspaper in a chair and Paula was reading "The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn By Mark Twain" on the couch. "It must be the painter who called, Jim darling" Paula said to him. "Yes, Paula honey, I will answer it" Jim replied and got up, dropping his newspaper on his chair. He answered their door and said: "good evening, sir, are you the painter who called my Wife Paula?" to the short old man who stood in the shadows. "Good evening, sir. Why, yes I am the painter indeed. You hired me to paint your living-room three years ago. I am finally here" the old man explained to Jim in a raspy voice and stepped into the streetlights. The painter was a living dead zombie, with pale-white flesh that was rotting, a decaying-head that was bald on top with straggly, dark-gray hair on the sides of it, wearing a grey collared-shirt, gray paints and grey suspenders. Jim screamed at him, as the zombie peered at him with his decaying-eye-sockets of black. The zombie of the painter held a paintbrush and rag in his rotting-hand and had a paint can hanging around his arm with his second hand in his pocket. One worm crawled out of one of the zombie's eye-sockets and into the other one. 
Hee-Hee, well, even though the painter was THREE FEARS LATE, he was ROT ON TIME! What a HEARTWORMING ENDING too eh, kiddies? Jim never decided to just BOO IT HIMSELF with having their living-room painted hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!