Tuesday, July 3, 2012

You Are What You Are

I went to work Sunday afternoon for a couple of hours not only because I am just that dedicated but also because I have no life of my own at all anymore. I do for others so much, I've decided it's a practical way to live out my golden years (that suck. Mom says that all the time).

When I arrive during the work week in the morning, I turn in my conscience, values and beliefs at the concierge desk and receive a claim chit. If I still have it at the end of the two week period when I turn it back in at the desk the afternoon of the second Friday, I get paid. It's quite cleverly, actually. In turn, I can pay (or try to) those to whom I owe money and they can do likewise, unless they're JP Morgan or Bank of America. As they say down on the farm, we are the 2% (little Occupy humor there, at least until it's outlawed).

On Sunday, in the corner of the office near the file cabinet, I came across a dead critter-actually he wasn't fully dead but I didn't know that at that time. On his back, feet, all eleven million of them, up in the air, was a cockaroach. I know how you spell it-that's how I say it. The ugliest thing on the planet-even uglier than millipedes and silverfish and those are hideous. I wonder if we look as ugly to them as they do to us.

I don't care if they can survive a nuclear attack. If you smack them with a book like a dictionary or a thesaurus, hundreds of time as hard as you can while yelling loudly (I think that's the key) they will .....use one of those books to pick out a word you like that means dead. Anyway, as I went to remove it with a HUGE wad of tissue paper, it struggled and moved. What am I, the Great Healer?

I did the best impersonation of a screaming five year old girl you have ever heard and danced flamenco on this bug so hard and so long that I wore a hole in my holes and made it one with the carpeting. I could not have thrown the pieces away had I been able to find any big enough to so do. I thought about the totality of disintegration when I came across this story about the hard life Steven Hayes has been having and how he's sought death to set him free.

Wait until September with the oysters ploy, Buster. I'm thinking about the sea of troubles against which you wish to take up arms, and by thus opposing, end them, but, sadly not soon enough.
-bill kenny

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