The other night I was at Meijer, doing a little shopping. I’m pretty sure I was in the checkout line behind a kindergarten teacher in the midst of preparations for poisoning her enitre class. All I saw her pull out of her shopping cart was box after box of Kool-Aid singles and 2 gallons of bleach.
I spent some time considering this woman. She had the look of a stereotypical someone I imagine teaching at some level of primary school – a roundish woman in stretch pants, canvas shoes and denim button up shirt embroidered with looney tunes characters over a turtleneck. Her attempt at a sensible ponytail barely recognizable behind the wreath of wisps framing her flushed face.
She had a tired-but-relieved look about her.
I hold that this expression of exhausted serenity existed due to the impending comeuppance she was about to dole out to the little bastards that sap away her youth and will to live on a daily basis.
I found myself briefly reflecting on this as an actual possibility and wondered how someone might approach that potentially over the edge individual to make that delicate sane/not sane call. I’m thinking it would be a little awkward to just come out and ask “So, planning on killing a whole bunch of kids tomorrow?” Plus it may have drawn attention to the ax, tarp and shovel in my own cart, so I decided to let it be.
I base this statement on review of this world’s historical records – said records being the history channel. As I was flipping through the crap available for my viewing pleasure on a typical Sunday afternoon, I noticed that the history channel was airing Mad Max – apparently here this is some sort of documentary.
I really hope the reality presented here persists through the entire series of movies. I so want to live in a world where midgets train mildly retarded cage fighters.
There is a child with down syndrome that lives across the street from me. His parents have purchased for him some sort of horn instrument – a trombone or possibly a tuba.
On nice days he practices with all the windows open.
I have to say that this is the least appealing dealership that I have ever run across: Raper RVs. What I wanna think about is an entire line of recreational vehicles marketed to sexual predators.
“Looking for a way to transport victims to your secluded cabin in the privacy of a van but don’t want to leave the comforts of home? How often have you wanted to de-stress with a relaxing road trip right after the ordeal of finding yet another spot in the woods to bury a teenage girl? Well let Raper RV handle all your recreational needs.”
I could be reading too much into this. Maybe they are just really overpriced.
I want a monkey.
I want a monkey that will perch upon my shoulder as I walk down the street.
People will envy me for my monkey. They will long for a tiny simian of their very own to share their life experiences.
I want a cappuchin monkey or a marmoset. A lemur may also suffice. I will name my monkey Elliot, and we will wear matching stocking caps. Elliot will sit atop my monitor at work and leap at my coworkers at my behest. He will also fetch soda and other sundries from the vending machine.
He may also wear a small tuxedo.
My next door neighbor is a huge woman.
I don’t mean she’s fat – a regular fat person does not cause a person’s mind to shatter due to the sheer uncanny appearance of her form. I mean she posesses a bone structure far beyond that of a normal human being.
I’ve said hi to her a few times in passing, but she always seems far too busy to talk. Or maybe she just wants to avoid me in particular for some reason. Whatever it is, she’s making her race of giants appear pretty antisocial. Last time I tried to talk to her, she managed a pleasant facade for a few seconds before indicating that she was late for something downtown – presumably her battle with Ghidra.
My boyfriend left this little token for me on the kitchen table one morning
Was there an actual spider under there?
I’m suprised he hasn’t yet delivered a pig’s heart in a box for Valentine’s day.