Written by susan allen-rosario

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Tags: killed

Friday, 15 February 2008

I knew I had to get out, it was kill or be killed and I didn't want to die…

The Seattle Seahawks were playing on Monday Night Football, and the mere thought of our team participating in such a ritual, had turned my husband into a chest-beating Neanderthal - he even smelled different. Could it be he was wearing the same "lucky" shirt he wore when the "Hawks" made it to the Superbowl? Something in the room was ripe, and it wasn't the bananas.

I knew it was just a matter of time, before, in some self-induced primitive trance, my delusional mate, tried to drag me off by me hair… so… in keeping with this newly created tribal theme - I voted myself off the island, as the lone survivor, and went to the mall.

The mall was a peaceful place, full of women who had escaped their captors. The air smelled as if it had been marinated in fine perfume - and nobody had farted in the elevator at Macy's. There were a few stray men darting about…

Like terrified rats in a room full of pussies.

I bought myself a white-chocolate mocha (with whip cream) at the food court, and settled into a chair to savor the moment. I imagined my sister shoppers, joining hands in a merry waltz of frolicking feminity, as angels dropped rose pedals from the heavens… ahhh.

My dream moment quickly become a nightmare sequence, equipped with noxious fumes, when a former linebacker, raked a chair across the food court and plopped down at a table with his triple-bacon cheeseburger and garlic fries in tow.

Where had he come from and why was he loose?

I felt like I'd been drop kicked through the goal post of reality…

I might as well go home…

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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