Except for a couple dozen classes I’ve taught, my entire family, and most of my friends, no one knows what I’m about to tell you: I am a loathsome litter liquidator. I am not proud of this shockingly-earned sobriquet; kitten-killer I could bear. But no. The four-leggeds were not so lucky that summer day in 1989. And neither was I.
On a jaunt to Florida to visit my brother, I took a back road that I thought would be faster. But I was wrong. Just like every time I select the line with the fewest people at Wal Mart, as soon as I am securely positioned, the fucking checker turns out to have the speed and mental acuity of a sloth’s bowel movement; and there I am stuck for hours, which seem to drag on for sixty minutes each.
On the country road, there was a line of cars snailing leisurely along in front of me, and every now and then, the car at the head veered out abruptly to the left and then back into its place. I realized there must be something in the road. There must be something in the road, I said smugly to myself. Just as the car directly in front of me started to swerve, a massive mongrel lumbered off the right side of the road, dragging an abundance of mammilla on the pavement. Oh. That must have been the something in the road, I said smugly to myself, as I chose NOT to divert my path since the obstacle had clearly relocated.
Unfortunately for all, the obstacle had left its mother-fucking offspring ON the pavement. WHERE they had been nursing. SINCE they had RECENTLY fallen out of the obstacle’s vagina on said pavement. And were NOW all up under my fucking tires. In one big sonofabitching puppy puddle. Mother of God.
I puked up food from 1992. I couldn’t even look at the canine carnage, so I gunned it and tore up a good mile-and-a-half before I pulled over to take stock of how I was so going straight to hell. There in hell, as I have learned from my extensive Bible studies, an evil cat waits at the gates, grinning, grinning, grinning smugly like some kind of evil cat waiting at the gates to hell.
I puked up food from 1992. I couldn’t even look at the canine carnage, so I gunned it and tore up a good mile-and-a-half before I pulled over to take stock of how I was so going straight to hell. There in hell, as I have learned from my extensive Bible studies, an evil cat waits at the gates, grinning, grinning, grinning smugly like some kind of evil cat waiting at the gates to hell.
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