theflu

Mary J Blige is seizure dancing on the boob tube in a Brazilian flag mini and clod hoppers. She is the screaming infant zebra that thrashes violently as she is torn apart by a pack of methodical hyenas. The former glory of her youth, embodied in her skinny legs and underdeveloped coordination, now hinders her escape. She cries because she is soft and with each tooth that is sunk into her back she knows she is closer to ugly black pasture at the end of her short meaningless existence. The helplessness of the prey and its ceaseless crimson flow incites madness in the hyenas. A bout of laughter briefly interrupts the ripping sounds created as skin around the animals stomach is pulled away. I am consumed with delight unable to control my shaking and screaming, nor the spiting of blood and flesh at my team. I hardly notice that the animal has gone lifeless after having broke it's own neck in the struggle. We might have paid homage to the bitch had she not been so pathetic, but instead we...well...we just ate her.
Later that night, as a lay privately tonguing my genitalia, I lost myself thinking of how truly lucky I was to be able to regularly dine out with my closest friends, sharing in the experience of a magnificent slaughter such as todays. I concluded that life was not about money, power, respect, fancy cars and diamond rings, or even my new R&B solo album. Life was about the smaller moments. Those spent with the companions I love.