Dammit! I need to get to the grocery store!
Blam! A yellow dragster with flames licking out from either side skids to a halt feet from the CVS drug where I am shopping. A short dark imposing figure emerges hair blowing back from the fierce wind, prescription in hand. He pushes past me and makes his way to the counter where he pulls out a small firearm and declares loudly to all of us that this is in fact a “stick up”. Mike the pharmacist makes use of his ninja skills and reaches for his own loaded shotgun firing off a round before short dark guy even has a chance. Stepping over his lifeless body to reach the counter I look to Mike for some direction. “Now what can I help you with today?” he inquires. My Augmentin is ready in five minutes and I’m off. So efficient.
Already on my second errand of the day I notice I’m being watched by a handsome young man as I try to decide between a rotisserie chicken and a salmon fillet. He steps in and makes a recommendation with odd sentence fragments and what seem to be undecipherable clues. What could he be trying to tell me? The only thing I understand is that I should choose a delicate white wine to go with the fish.
After coffee with friends we decide to pull a “ship’s mast” stunt on an old back road where we are attacked by an eyepatch wearing moron with a Dodge Charger. He drives wildly into our muscle car making our fun far more dangerous and threatening to accidentally break my new bottle of wine and dent my fish. Dinner is at stake here! What the fuck is wrong with this guy? Feeling like he may have watched the 70′s version of Vanishing Point one too many times we decide to brake and throw it into reverse after I’ve untied myself from the hood. We drag him from his vehicle and beat the shit out of him just for fun.
We walk the seven miles or so back to the city and hitch a ride with two local handymen who seem to be just coming off a job. They’ve got some skittish looking young guy handcuffed in the back who’s jabbering on about NOT owing Marcellus Wallace any money and begging us to help him. Sorry young man, we all need to get home in time for carpool line and dinner. Enough with the crying already! Julius, the more assertive of the two turns to discuss our young passengers options and accidentally discharges his gun. Whoops! This day really is skittering right to hell in a handbasket isn’t it?
Remembering that I need to pick up a crafting project for this afternoons Girl Scout meeting, I ask our friendly ride givers if after we help remove what remains of their former passenger from the upholstery with my nifty new cleaning agent and shamwow, if they wouldn’t mind swinging by Michael’s for me? “Not a problem” is the response.
After a lengthy discussion of what a Big Mac with cheese is called in France we finally arrive at our destination. I thank them and dispose of what’s left of our recently departed friend before going inside. Mental math is not my strong suit, so I ask a group of gentlemen behind me on line to help me calculate the cost of my purchases after coupons. (You can’t be too frugal these days you know!) They seem to be deep in conversation and are calling each other by odd formal names like “Mr. Yellow” and “Mr. Black”. I suspect that some sort of buffoonery is about to take place and pay as quickly as humanly possible. Sure enough, ten seconds after departing gunshots ring out and Mr. Black comes tearing out of the automatic double doors drenched in blood. What a shame, that suit was gorgeous.
You made me miss Girl Scouts! The PTA is NOT going to be happy.
The time has come to pick up my kids and I sit daydreaming in my car while the music blares. I make polite chit chat with another mom about what events are coming up on the kiddie calendar and flick what appears to be a chunk of flesh off of my bag of crafts. As I turn toward the window I hear a deafening blast as glass shatters all around me. The last thing I see when the smoke clears is my crazy ex, Bill as he walks away from the scene. Before I go under I think to myself “I’d really like to kill him”.
I wake up in a local hospital bed frantic. Where are my kids?! What is going on?! Did I miss Girl Scouts?! The doctor assures me that my kids are just fine. As a matter of fact my “husband” Bill was kind enough to drop by and let everyone know that he would take care of them. With my cold dead look of terror I promptly inform him that my husband’s name isn’t Bill. That asshole totally stole my kids!
Waving off unwanted medical advice from the doctor on call I flee the hospital and jump into my canary yellow minivan. I drive straight to Mexico where I fend off numerous ding bats and dispose of several nasty villans. I also pick up a truckload of hand crafted pottery and two tons of sterling silver jewelry. What a fucking bargain! That one terra-cotta pot will look stunning on my back porch.
I arrive at my destination and use my already overdone five point palm heart exploding technique to kill Bill. What a jerk. I gather up the kids and explain that we haven’t much time so I’m putting the Spongebob movie on heavy rotation on the vans DVD player and lighting it up to get home in time for a decent meal.
As we screech into our garage I finally start to feel the strange weight of this day begin to lift from my shoulders. Groceries unloaded, stove on, I discreetly dab at the blood escaping the bandage covering my head wound and begin to marinate the fish. They’ve started their homework and the evening grinds to a close. I look into the camera and smile as a catchy surfer Dick Dale tune blares.
Credits roll.
