BURIED ALIVE: HOLY GUACAMOLE – HOW I ATE MY WAY FROM UNDER AN AVALANCHE OF AVOCADOS

SURVIVAL:  ATTACK OF THE MUTANT MARS BAR *warning: article contains peanut reference

I LOST 50 BAZILLION POUNDS IN 24 HOURS. YOU CAN TOO!

The headlines on display at my local supermarket’s checkout counter #3 are mesmerising. It’s hard to look away even though I could care less about who

married whom last week, who’s been divorced within ten minutes of marrying their soul mate, or who was so totally flummoxed to the point of being hospitalized when their great dane gave birth to a litter of chihuahuas.

My groceries glide forward. I look up in time to catch the guy-in-front-of-me’s face pinch. He grabs his change, his six-pack, and high-tails it outta’ here like his feet are on fire.

It’s my turn. I say hi, and as if I were the full-bearded patron who fled the scene a moment ago, the checker says to me, “Yeah, they found the remains of at least fifteen people buried in the basement.”

Never mind the perplexed puppy owner on the magazine rack, now I’m the one flummoxed. “What?”

Jeff, printed on a name tag under the store’s logo, sets a head of red-leaf-lettuce on the scale. He punches a long series of numbers into the keyboard. “Yeah. It was him and his roommate…”

Of all the crazy news on the rack, how’d I miss the one about a pair of serial killers?

Three apples…
TAP TAP TAP.
“They dug up over twelve hundred pieces of bones. That’s one-thousand-two-hundred. Crazy, right?”

I might not be a news junkie, but I don’t live under a rock either. “Wait a minute,” I say. “I’m confused. Start from the beginning. Where was this?”

Scan *beep* Scan *beep* Scan *beep*

“In London.”

A bunch of bananas. Organic. On sale. Eighty-nine cents per pound.
TAP TAP TAP.

I’m feeling better. At least it’s not in my neighborhood. “Do they know who did it?”

Scan *beep* Scan *beep* Scan *beep*

“Yes.”

Ginger root.  TAP TAP.

“Benjamin Franklin.”

TAP.

“Whaaaat?”

“Your total comes to fifty-two thirty-eight. His roommate ran an anatomy school. Grave robbing was the only way to get any real experience in those days.”

I slide my credit card into the reader. It chimes its consent.

“Thank you…” Jeff looks at the receipt. “Mrs. Weidner. And what do you do with a bunch of dismembered and dissected bodies once you’re done with them?”

I smile, grab my bag, and wink, “I bury them in the basement.”

The look on the customer’s face behind me is priceless.

Folks – this is a true story.
The one about Ben Franklin, too.
It happened just yesterday.
Not Ben’s, of course…
or the headlines (at least not to my knowledge).
Please feel free to share in comments any strange encounters you’ve had…ever.

BE WELL and
❤ Thanks for stopping by today ❤