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March 2009 Volume 11 , Issue 3 submit to us!

by Maranda Russell -- Contributing Author [Email This Story]

Life is unfair. In fact, often it is worse than unfair. Sometimes life sucks ass. I was fortunate to learn this very early in life. I would have learned it sooner or later anyway thanks to my psychotic family, but due to the experiences of a beloved friend, I learned it much earlier. This friend of mine is one that probably most of you are familiar with. His name is Wile E. Coyote and he is part of the Looney Tunes gang. Wile is brilliant, he has the best that new technology can offer, and he obviously has a lot of money to be able to order so frequently from Acme. After all, explosives are not exactly cheap. Even fireworks are a rip-off nowadays.

Somehow though, even with all these advantages, Wile has a problem. A stupid moron of a bird always beats him. Wile has been trying to eat this damn bird for years and has always failed. I'm not sure why this one particular bird is so special. One day I asked Wile, why don't you just go get another stinking bird? But he was too severely injured to be able to answer my question. The only reason I can see for Wile's obsession with this bird is that by this point it's personal; it's not just about lunch anymore. He doesn't just want to eat that bird anymore; he wants to make the son of a bitch pay! He wants to torture that bird. He wants that bird to experience all the agony and shame he himself has suffered. He wants to go medieval on that bird.

I myself feel much the same way about the morons in my life. It is unfair when you are intelligent and work hard to get something, just to have some blonde bimbo with a bad dye job and huge boobs steal it out from under you. I would like to see the roadrunner suffer myself. I want to see his head ripped off. I want to see him gutted like a Thanksgiving Turkey. In fact, I always envisioned the perfect Thanksgiving with Wile. We would take the roadrunner out behind the house and take an ax to it on the old chopping block. After that, we would head back to the house where we could pluck and clean up the bloody bird. Next of course we would shove stuffing up its butt and then cook it at 350 degrees until it is golden brown. In a fair world, that would be the happy ending we all really desire.

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Features -- March 2009 -- Mid Month Issue