Slither slither slither went the mind. But the unborn son was what he had to forget about as he threw her into the otorhinolaryngological depths of the San Francisco Bay. The cement anchors! The cement anchors! Oh God, would his mind trapise outside and his head collide against her mon pubis? Bumping mon pubis with mon pubis as he tried to throw this corpse ::::::STATIC:::::: into the San Francisco Bay, the cold waters! Cold corpse into cold waters! Humiliation!
Scott remembered the good stoic words of Zeno, remembering that he was a Master of the Universe! And so, like a very good boy, a good solid man, Scott, he of the last name Peterson, looked away from her pectoral morsels that he had buried his face into just a few nights ago, watching his wife — the corpse! — ::::::STATIC::::::
And then came the distant cry of his father back in Atlanta:
“SON! IF YOU DON’T STOP VACILLATING BETWEEN THROWING HER INTO THE BAY AND SITTING THERE WITH YOUR TAILS BETWEEN YOUR LEGS, THEN YOU JUST AIN’T GOT THE GUTS. YOU’RE A MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE!”
Scott had to be a man, for to be otherwise (humiliation!) was not an option. And so her body plopped in, all her deltoids and her rotary cuffs and her solar plexus and then, eventually, her mon pubis — the last part to touch the waters.