I grant you that murdering an innocent little creature foolishly sprinting across the road in hopes of defying his inevitable gory Goodyear demise is no picnic, but there’s just something unsettlingly icky about running over the poor guy again.

He’s already dead. It looks disgusting. And here comes your charging, fuel-injected, clumsy rhinoceros of a car just to really ram the point home and splay his guts everywhere to reassure everyone that, yes, this thing is still dead. I did this on the way to the office last week causing the following sentence to sputter out of my mouth (mind you, I was alone):

“Oh, no. I… yeeeeuck…. Jesus. That’s fucking just… ew… I mean… right? Fuck…. Poor bastard.”

By the way, I always gender roadkill as male because trying to dart across the street and beat oncoming traffic in the face of all logic strikes me as an inherently male trait. I’m certain I’ve sent my fair share of female rodents (and in two possible cases, armadillos) to that great forest in the sky, but females of any species seem less likely to try something this intrinsically moronic than males.

Plus, when you run it over again, you probably degrade the flavor of the poor creature making a less tasty stew for the Beverly Hillbillies when they inevitably drive by and scrape it off the road.

This here’s my roadkill!