We were returning from Sydney and my beloved wife was full of Pfizer 5G nanobots and heart-exploding hexyldecanoates. At any second she could drop dead or turn into a werewolf.
“How you feeling?” I asked.
“Fine. Arm’s a bit sore where the needle went in, but fine.”
“Any tingling? Numbness? Nausea?”
“The fuck are you? Some doctor cunt? I feel fine. I’ll tell you if that changes.”
We drove on.
“You hungry?” I asked.
“You’re always hungry. You’re five pizzas away from being a Shaniqua on My 600-Pound Life.”
“Wanna stop and get some food?”
“Everything is closed.”
“Maccas is never closed.”
“I cannot eat that shit and you should not eat that shit. And you certainly can’t eat that shit in my car.”
Lynette’s car is a no-eat zone. If you’ve seen me eat, then you can understand why she made it so. And why her cars have always had a very high re-sale value.
“I gotta eat or I will…”
“You’ll fucken what?” she snapped. “And don’t say die, because you won’t fucken die. You’ll just not eat shit if you don’t eat right fucken now. What the fuck, cunt? Are you seriously pulling into Macca’s?”
I ordered three cheesbeurgers. Well, I thought I did. But I got two cheeseburgers and a Big Mac.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” she said, as I pulled out and started rummaging through the bag for Burger Number One. “Did they give you napkins? You drop any of that shit on my seat, and I’ll fucken end you.”
She grabbed the bag and looked inside.
“What the fuck, cunt? You bought three fucken hamburgers? Who the fuck eats three fucken hamburgers? Oh my fucking God! It’s all over your fucking hands! You’re dropping that shit on my seatbelt!”
That’s pretty much what was happening because Big Macs are hard to eat with one hand while you’re driving. The Special Sauce tends to drip like an eye leaking pus.
“Stop yelling,” I said. “You’ll set the vaccine off. You need to be calm and joyful and allow the Pfizer to do its work.”
“I can’t even…” she snarled, dabbing at the Special Sauce which had dripped onto my chest. “That is disgusting! You terrible fat cunt, you’re folding that in just like one of them giant black women on the show.”
“I think you’re overstating that a touch,” I said, but it sounded like “Arggagalagablurghlegargachuch” because my mouth was very full.
“I don’t speak fat-chew!” my wife hissed, producing a Wet Wipe from somewhere and continuing the clean-up process as I slammed along the deserted freeway at 120km/h.
“Ohmyfuckinggod, ohmyfuckinggod…” she kept saying as if I had arrived home covered in blood with sirens sounding in the distance, like has happened in the past.
“How you feeling?” I asked, trying to distract her from me and genuinely curious if the vaccine was killing her. “Anything weird going on?”
“I feel disgusted, but since you’ve stopped eating, the weirdness has stopped. You are never to eat in my fucking car again. Ever! That was the most awful fucking thing I have ever seen, you horrible fat cunt.”
“You’re over-reacting,” I sighed.
“Get fucked, cunt. I’m trying to keep you alive and my car free of terrible food scraps which never decompose, but smell like shit – but not in that order.”
“I love you.”
“Go fuck yourself. Just drive and do not speak.”
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Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.