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Dead Legs 2

Motherfucker was
on my toothbrush.
Saturday morning,
seemingly typical
Saturday morning.
Who would have thought that
simply rolling out
of bed with
the intention to throw
on some clothes and
take the boy out for pancakes,
things could go so
awry.

Motherfuckers little body parts were all moving the way that they do.
Why the hell are these particular freakin monstrosities so
intensely appalling as opposed to say,
the cricket
or the dragonfly,
who although they may share some outward similarities, both seem to be a natural
part of the evolutionary path of our normally charming little planet,
not like these slimy deviant freakin aberrations of nature.
And the boy is screaming;
daddy killed it, daddy killed it, daddy killed it.
And the wife is handing me
the biggest ass shoe in the house screaming;
get it, get it, get it, get it, get it, get it.

Holy shit!
The hair tie and little Brett things are on the floor and
the little white sword toothpick-ish thingies with the dental floss hook ends are
in the sink, somehow the hot water is running and
3 tubes of toothpaste, 2 deodorants, a bean derived facial scrub
and some blue bottle of bath spray are
taking a beating with the shoe and
not even the half of a gallon jug of rain fresh Clorox bleach applied
liberally, passionately, and with a seeming madness
can wash away the memory.
Can wash away the motherfucking memory
of that cockroach on my toothbrush,
disgusting
sick
little bastard.

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