Friday, November 8, 2013

Migration Patterns of the Common Shrew

Anita was not only a shrew, but a perfected shrew; a shrew to the 100 power who’s shrewness could be separated into varying shrew archetypes. She was a vicious shrew to be certain, but also a wily shrew, a rabid shrew, an unrepentant shrew, a dramatic shrew and on and on. She reminded me of a disco ball, each glinting facet a new and slightly more awe inspiring shrewability, or shrewonality as it were.

My first wife was unique in her overwhelming shrewish countenance, but her sister Yvonne had inherited none of the family shrew. She on the other hand was sweet and kind, thoughtful and a pleasure to be around, intellectually titillating in conversation, always a gentlewoman. Until one day.

I waved at her from across the restaurant. “Hi Vonnie” I called toward the open kitchen where my sister in law worked as a short order cook. She barely looked up from her greasy hash browns. “Asshole” I saw her mutter. Obviously, Anita had been here, had set a shrew loose, and it had somehow found its way up Vonnie’s bum. I readied my shrewic vitriol deflector and took a booth, hoping that whatever I ordered in the way of food wouldn’t be burned to a crisp.

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