Christmas time. Evil Editor sat large in the rusted hulk of his old Ford Power Wagon. Heater blasting at his crotch, EE belted out an appropriate song in his off-key voice. “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”
The rumble of the big engine shook the vehicle, vibrating his butt cheeks like a bad masseuse. He liked the sensation. Probably good for the buns, he thought in a self-satisfied way. And speaking of buns…he was right next to the mall. “Cinnamon buns…mmmmm.” Sticking a beefy arm out the window to lead the way, he pulled left across two lanes of traffic, blew through a red light, and slid into the mall parking lot. “Driving in a winter wonderland,” he chortled happily, cutting off a mini van as he looked for a parking space.
He liked the Power Wagon – sitting up high, looking down on everyone else. The way life should be. EE saw drivers searching in vain for parking spaces. “Bunch of morons,” he muttered, rolling past them.
Just as he suspected, there was one last parking space right up front in the handicap zone. He reached under his seat, pulled out a fake handicap sign and hung it on his mirror, “Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la…hey, WHAT THE HELL!” A white beemer turned the corner and angled into his space. Enraged, EE slammed the steering wheel with both hands. “DAMN”, he snarled, shaking his head so furiously that spittle rained against the inside of his windshield. An elderly, white-haired man struggled to exit the beemer. “Freakin Q-tip! I hope Santa’s reindeer take a dump down your chimney!” he vituperated, driving past.
“Fuck the cinnamon buns!”
Leaving the mall, EE sideswiped a parked car. “Merry Christmas!” he bellowed, hitting the gas and roaring away.
--Mark Mosher
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Do I detect a lack of LOVE for cinnamon buns? A lack of dedication to the beloved sweets? An adjustable craving?
Love the way you sneaked in a massseuse under cover of the cinnamon buns.
Post a Comment