Last night I walked past a house that reeked of a fetid oil recently sprayed from the anus of a West Duluth skunk.
Two kids, who looked to be about 11 years old, were walking the sidewalk toward the odiferous house as I was walking away. They seemed to know that something was going on. Another kid, maybe two years younger, came from across the street and shouted, “Did they kill the skunk yet?”
“No, but they’re about to,” one of the other kids answered.
“Awesome!” the younger kid yelled with great enthusiasm, running over to join them.
I continued on my way, as I often do in these situations, only to wonder later why I didn’t hang around for the full story. It seems that, at some point in my life, getting to Kmart became more important than witnessing an execution.
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