ROAD KILL

This very evening at a quarter to nine I packed up the car and drove from my city to the capital city. About two hours into the trip, as I was fanaticizing about french kissing a rather fetching man * with crooked teeth, I saw a fresh heap of wicker furniture road kill on the side of the road. The gore lined the highway like so much dry kindling. I tried to avert my eyes, but my gaze was irresistibly drawn to the carnage. I wonder if it was still alive after the accident. I wonder if a state trooper had to approach it with an axe and put it out of its misery.

* He is something of an acquaintance at Corporate Bread and his name is Patrick, which is an extremely unsexy name. You have to imagine yelling a person’s name while in the throws of passion and Patrick just reminds me of Sponge Bob’s pink, brainless, echinoderm friend. And associations with a Nickelodeon cartoon, an exciting sexual fantasy does not make.