Here’s mine. The Kool Aid Man’s grave. Sorry, not sorry. This is what I thought of yesterday while my kid continuously offered me wet Cheerios from the backseat. I thought of murdering the Kool Aid Man.
For several minutes I debated as to whether his face was something etched into the pitcher, or whether it was a shape-shifting part of his liquid. If it was part of his pitcher, I contemplated drawing his dead eyes staring into the beyond. If it was part of the liquid, then his face gets poured out and dies with him. I ultimately went with that.
I’m so uplifting today. Sorry, not sorry.
Here’s the wife’s:
She enjoyed the play on the word, “doomsday.”