Super. Market

As i stroll down the isle of the the frozen food at a local super market, i hunt stealthily for turkey. it is the turkey season. besides a group of overly-peped up cheerleaders singing carols out of tune, there is nothing standing in my way, the turkey is mine!

i stir gently the banket of condensed air that so willingly protects the chilled products, it reminds me of a hurricane about to annihilate a costal town. i laugh to myself. i lay my hands on the frigid featherless fowl, it is dumbfounded wih fear, i can see it in its cadaverous eyes.

i deftly lift the turkey and place it under my armpit. placing my other hand in front of me and fanning my plam, i make an expeditive exit, nimbly displaying my hopping skills as i avoid the civil servants that tail me. i have breached out of the compounds of the super market. i lift my hands victoriously into the air and wave them tauntingly, thus expressing my silent success.

i am unaware that as i raise my arms, the turkey drops ungracefully onto the burgeoning grass.