Gwen Petersen: In a Sow’s Ear 5-7-12 |

Gwen Petersen: In a Sow’s Ear 5-7-12

Personally I think soda pop is poison especially the “diet” kind. The beverages are NOT thirst quenching. Consumption of the stuff assists in making an individual fat, fat, fat. Most colas taste like carbonated ink.

Pop pushers, having created the monstrous brews, are now into expanding exponentially – along with people’s waistlines. Recently, while doing the dreaded grocery shopping chore, I turned a corner and there stood a robot. It looked a little like Shrek only not as handsome. It was 5-feet or so tall with a basketball shaped head and bulging metal eyes, it was waving snake-like flexible arms as it squawked the words, “Have a soda, have a soda.”

“Yipes,” I said.

The tin android waved a can of pop clutched in one “hand.”

“Have a soda, have a soda,” it repeated, offering the (name brand) treasure to me.

I about-faced my cart on two wheels and ducked behind a stack of on-sale toilet tissue. It’s finally happened, I thought. UFO’s have landed or the Secret Service personnel are ordering room service.

The tin ghoul’s rotund midsection bore Cola hieroglyphics and words declaring “Drink Cola-Pop and become irresistible to others – gender: Your choice.”

What the! The tin apparition moved! Spindly pipe-like legs ended in size EEEEE metal feet shaped like large cowpies. The feet bore the monster close to where I lurked behind the t.p. Then one snaky arm parted the stack and I found myself staring into buggy eyes that blinked electronically.

“Earth Being,” it droned, “Have a Cola Pop. You must drink Cola Pop.”

“No, no,” I howled and grabbed a roll of tissue in each hand. “Stay away from me or I’ll fire!”

The creature kept coming. “Do not question Big Soda Poppa’s wisdom,” it said in a voice that sounded like a bucket of bolts clanking together. It shoved the pop toward me.

“No,” I yelped and hurled both tissue rolls. My aim was excellent. The missiles knocked the can right out of Mr. Metal Man’s metal paw. Unfortunately, the can burst as it landed spewing sticky soda in all directions. A small child, riding in its mother’s grocery cart, began licking up the drops that fell.

Desperately, I abandoned the t.p. barricade and raced for an exit. Behind me, I heard, “Run, pitiful Earth Being, run, but you cannot escape Big Soda Poppa.”

That was my last clear memory. I’m now being held in a strange chamber constructed of empty pop cans cemented together. The room is lined with rubber walls. My keepers slide food and drink to me through a small trapdoor. The drink, of course, is Cola. I receive no other liquid. I may never be heard from again.

Would someone please find out if the Secret Service is busy and let them know that I’m in need of rescuing?

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