Grabbing the electric cable of the hot iron, Deidre swung the iron around and around her head like she was swinging a dead cat by the tail, and killed her husband with a slap-bang on the side of the head. There was blood everywhere and a slight whiff of scorched hair.
Miscreant, she screamed, damned useless effeminate wombat. You are the antithesis of toxic masculinity.
And then Deidre chortled; it was a merciless, cold giggle. She took on the visage of a drooling hyena. This, she sniggered, is what is meant by striking while the iron’s hot.
Today I can get on with my life, mused Deidre. I’m sick of the way people think this planet is made for ironing, and vacuuming, and standing at the kitchen sink. At last I’m liberated from such enslavement. No more base behaviour. No more subservience. No more humiliation and slavery. No more pretending to appreciate a husband who couldn’t stop doing the laundry and ironing and cooking and house cleaning and dishes and getting the kids ready for school. This is the end of the liberated woofter. Now to go online and find me a real man.