You have died of dysentery

Remember Oregon Trail? Of course you do. Pixelated horses and pixelated rivers and pixelated buffalo. It was the highlight of my day when I got some good Oregon Trail time in. We became experts at the right amount of food, right amount of bullets. We knew the risks of fording the river. We (I) hated hunting.

Sometimes we died of dysentery. Like this week, when C and I died of dysentery from getting supplies at Fort Pizza Hut. It was Sunday evening, it was a thousand billion degrees outside, and we were starving after spending an afternoon at the pool. E doesn’t eat meat or dairy, so she got breadsticks and was spared the indignity that C and I suffered.

Oh yeah, Pizza Hut. Your pizza, which was delicious at the time, made us sick. Not right away. No, it waited like a freaking lion in the brush and then pounced like we were wounded gazelle. It has lasted three entire days. Boo, Pizza Hut! Boo for making us die of dysentery!

We did not make it to Oregon. We suffered quietly in the back of our wagon while E bumped us along the rocky, miserable road to wherever it is our sorry carcasses gave in to your cheesy, doughy toxins.

HERE LIE C AND R. THEY DIED WITH A WHIMPER. AND A BANG. BECAUSE THEY EXPLODED.

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