Woman of Mass Destruction

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July 1, 2012 by Manny Wordsmith

She had an ass grenade, secretly tucked away.

It was probably created in a pool of acidic juices, reeking of Chicken Shawarma and $16 Yering Station Pinot Noir Wine. The combination seems harmless at its core. A typical dinner, for a typical lady on the go, enjoying life in the suburbs. But underneath all of her American-made life of SUV’s, picket fences and bottomless budgets, there must have been a forewarning alarm or a slip in security. Sometime in the car maybe, on Hall Road, during stop-and-go traffic in-between singing “Wide Awake” by Katy Perry, and one of the slow songs by Lady Antebellum. I figure it happened, she panicked, and then quickly second guessed her next destination. “Maybe I should just go home, it is just around the corner.” But in the end, she ultimately convinced herself that the minor breach in her walls could be contained just long enough for her to get her broken laptop examined…at my place of work.

The space provided in the parking lot would’ve been perfect for detonation. A free zone, where wind can simply carry away any trace of high-concentrated materials. But pride…oh pride is a terrible and evil beast. So instead of relinquishing the weapon inside of her to the open air, she thought she could still complete her mission before erupting. But when she stepped in the vestibule, the grenade was dropped where she stood. Just like that.

I can imagine that every single red light and alarm went off in her body as she squeezed and contorted her hips. “We’re not able to handle all this pressure!”, they screamed. She was probably like, “Fuck, I gotta drop it somehere. I don’t want anyone to get hurt! I obviously underestimated the garlic sauce.” This was an obvious last-ditch effort before innocent bystanders would be involved. But how would a well-to-do, stay at home mom know about the outdoor air flow rate of automatic doors at a retail store? Or that the door behind her would close before the one in front of her did? she had no idea. She also didn’t know about the crowd around my station, awaiting directions toward the Motown CD’s and the Plasma televisions on clearance. So when she meant to flee the scene, in case of blow back, she ran into a customer instead, dropping her receipt in front of me and smothering me in the disgusting mist of her bowls. Yes folks, her fart. It followed her in to the store, from the vestibule. Like a lost child, a smelly lost child that plays in garbage and sweats decomposed bodies. The dismay in her face was disheartening. She didn’t want me to catch it. I mean I HAD to bend down to get that receipt for her. I’ve been bred for politeness. If she hadn’t dropped it, the stank bomb would’ve been blamed on someone else or no one else. I don’t want to think her plan was to crop dust the front section of the store, but that fart held on to her ass like a drunk bachelor at a strip club.

Now she will forever be fart lady. And that day, the day of the chemical attack, will be a day that lives in infamy.


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