Back in the early 1990s, I sat front and center for the best fight in suburban South Florida history. There were no ropes and no screaming fans; nor were there disgruntled, black-and-white striped dudes with whistles. Featured opponents? My mom and dad. Location: formal living room, 8300 NW 54th St., my tropical childhood home.
Just to fill you in, my parents rarely fought. Even if they did, it would involve (a) coupon-expiration-date-induced bickering over where to eat dinner (b) Thursday Night Remote Control Tug-of-War (Chicago Hope versus NYPD Blue). When they did unabashedly lose their cool like housemates circa episode six of The Real World, I was unapologetically pleased, because it was mostly decorating-based.
The catalyst for that night’s explosion? Straight from the taxidermist, Dad snuck 12 feet of stuffed elk and sailfish in the front door as Mom pulled up from a PTA meeting, dinner in one hand and a 3-year-old in the other. What followed can best be described as the sound of all hell breaking loose.

























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