The Ex-Mrs. Comrade X does her best to undermine our undermining of capitalism

So:

On a recent reconnaissance trip to our local grocery outlet (inspired by the many intrepid exploratory excursions recently embarked upon by Comrade Y, who otherwise is terrified of brightly-lit consumerist emporiums, made so, I imagine [though I have never asked], by her many forced encounters with said emporiums as a child -- now trace memories of looming aisles of garishly-colored and highly-illuminated boxes of products with the most frightening imagery imaginable [Frankenberry? Count Chocula? Really? To a two-year-old? Too early to face the Death Drive! Poor Comrade Y!] come back to haunt her in her rare moments of sleep, which she normally avoids by staying awake late into the night, lucubrating upon the various and sundry methods of both a.) destroying capitalism and b.) exacting vengeance for a childhood tampered with by consumerist terror), Comrade X ran in to the Ex-Mrs. Comrade X, who was purchasing the above product. Upon seeing her pick up numerous tubs of said product (Comrade X immediately recalled her absolute and unwavering addiction to Mountain Dew [originally a heinous and unnatural drug manufactured by the Army in 1954 to kill Koreans and Southerners (who overwhelmingly showed a marked resistance to its more negative side effects), but due to the mixed results of testing upon Army "volunteers," the tests were abandoned, the program shut down, and Mountain Dew turned into a consumer product, a percentage of the proceeds of which are still funneled into government coffers, distributed equally between the Army and the Department of Transportation (for reasons unknown -- so far)], cans of which would be stacked daily in her kitchen, usually 12-24 per day -- in fact once, when talking to the poor unfortunate children of the ex-Mrs. Comrade X, Comrade X learned that on a recent recycling trip, 320 cans of Mountain Dew were logged by a grocery clerk, representing two months of consumption of said product), Comrade X, unseen by the fixated and glassy-eyed ex-Mrs. Comrade X, remarked, while standing a few feet behind her, mindful of her tendency to whirl around suddenly when startled with fists protruding and often not empty fists (Comrade X was sent to the hospital [more later on the fucking joke of a health plan that Comrade X has, and the utter humiliation and degradation he undergoes EVERY VISIT when trying to acquire actual health care from a facility which has its own plan, its own doctors, its own machines, etc., and yet, somehow, miraculously and incomprehensibly, approves no procedures] more than once with wounds to the hands and torso [and once the face] by sharp objects wielded by said assailant -- though small, the ex-Mrs. Comrade X is both strong and unrelenting; in fact, one time she kicked Comrade X in the liver, causing a puncture in said organ with resulting leakage of bodily fluids, and when asked what prompted her to do so, remarked in a casual tone, "You were open!" It was at this point that Comrade X realized that all hope for THAT union was lost), "You eat that shit?"
"What the fuck" she literally screamed while whirling (luckily, empty-handed, though still very dangerous) towards me.
"That shit. 'Kozy Shack.' Why the fuck do they call it that? You can't live in it. It doesn't offer shelter. Or warmth. It's not a blanket. And anyway, 'shack' is pejorative, so really they're saying 'Comfortable Hillbilly Home,' and ... "
"What the fuck are you doing here?!"
"I'm trying to destroy ... "
"Get out of my aisle!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you OWNED this aisle."
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY AISLE!"
"Umm ... and ... whats with the '0 trans fat' thing? No one knows what ... "
"I do."
"You didn't even let me ... "
"I know what you're going to say. I TOLD you all about this. MANY TIMES!"
"Yeah, but ... "
"And you NEVER, EVER listened. You never remember shit! You have the worst ... "
"Now hold on ... "
" ... memory in the history ... "
"Look, I'm just trying to do reconnaissance here ... and why do they always use a 'k' instead of a 'c' to make something sound cute and ... "
" ... OF THE FUCKING WORLD!"
Now, at this point, Comrade X saw no further gain to be had from this conversation (in fact, he saw no gain to begin with), so he (well, 'I' -- I'm not quite sure why I write all this in the third person, if you really want to know the truth) began to walk away, foolishly turning his back on the ex-Mrs. Comrade X, who, with her usual skill in locating vital organs in the human body and attacking them mercilessly, threw a tub of the tapioca-flavored (I wonder why she didn't throw chocolate? I think she likes that flavor more and so didn't want to waste it) "Kozy Shack" (which, by the way, claims to be "all natural," but really, pudding isn't natural -- it doesn't occur in nature!) at Comrade X's right kidney, causing a kind of rush of some chemical or other in his body (I'm sure due to internal hemorrhaging) which caused him to drop to one knee (bruising it severely), while the ex-Mrs. Comrade X came up behind him and brained him with yet ANOTHER tub of tapioca-flavored Kozy Shack, rendering Comrade X both sticky and unsettled.
At which point, Comrade X remembers hearing, before losing consciousness entirely (I'm not sure, but I think I was being choked, as well), the oft-heard command of "Martha, clean up on aisle seven. Bring a mop," which is really the last thing anyone wants to hear before falling prostrate, covered in Kozy Shack tapioca pudding, before the triumphing form of your ex-wife doing a little dance (as I recall) to celebrate what I'm sure she considered to be some kind of victory over Your Humble Narrator.

And yet: the fight against capitalism goes on. The fact that out there, somewhere, is the highly dangerous and severely unstable ex-Mrs. Comrade X does not in any way deter Your Humble Fighter for the Cause, as he knows that, with certain precautions taken, he can avoid such an incident in the future. And he'll have to -- he won't survive another.

But if you do see her, a warning would be appreciated. Oh, and: FUCK KOZY SHACK!