By Mark Antony Rossi
I took the first exit I saw.
Mother Nature was calling my unsuspecting name in three languages. Two hours ago I hit a hamburger joint and now I have to beat Jesse Owens to the bathroom and give birth to a weapon of ass destruction. This is not a mega news flash but fast food restrooms are dirtier than Spanish soap operas and I feared foreign viruses could bio-jack my prostate.
I washed my hands six times.
And ran the fuck out of that frozen factory of fraudulent freaks. These cheap food franchises are often magnets for morons. If it were cost effective, I’d accuse them of serving kangaroo carcass with a cola and a smile. Yet smearing empty calorie SOB’s is redundant sort of like committing suicide in North Korea.
I made the sign of the cross twelve times.
And started seeking healthier fiber and humble faith in my chaotic life. Figured if I didn’t begin using my intelligence I’d be using their insulin. Another product no doubt owned by the same corporate clowns punching out pills and patties on different floors of a major manufacturing plant far from the eyes of the innocent and obese.