DO YOU SUPPOSE the Greeks might have done better in their bailout negotiations if they had been wearing ties? They just looked so informal and rascally in their suit jackets, their white business shirts and those open collars. Like Nicolas Cage in a Goodwill leisure suit.

As if begging the world for fifty billion in quarters for the parking meter called for the same level of formality as a guy sitting in a bar after work, tie off, collar open, showing a horrifying glimpse of pale-male cleavage and telling anyone who will listen that he’s ready to play.

On the other hand, American politicians wear ties all of the time, even with their pajamas (no bottoms). That’s because they are always at play, especially in their dreams, which often occur while they are fully awake and playing Let’s Pretend.

As in “Let’s pretend I’m not wearing an absurdly fake toupee,” “Let’s pretend I’m not a complete fool,” and “Let’s pretend I care.” Face it, it’s so much easier to accept a Great Pretender when said wig-flipping, uncaring, nudenicking fool is wearing a tie. Some one should tell the Greeks.

K-MAC AND MOI were watching baseball when the pitcher threw a ball that seemed way outside, but at the last second darted in across the zone. Strike three. The announcer said “Wow, that pitch had a little extra life on it.”

This concept of “a little extra life” intrigued me. If it works on a baseball, can it work on the average, working stiff? Who wouldn’t like a little extra life to check e-mail, to wait an hour after lunch before going swimming, to climb every mountain, ford every stream? Or just to get down and/or get funky. If already funky, then funkier.

Just how much is ‘a little extra life?’ Minutes? Hours? Days? Enough time to grow a Chia pet? Enough time to put in a new bathroom?  Enough time to rise above pettiness and greed and love thy fellow man?

Sadly, the only evidence I found of a little extra life for humans is that toenails supposedly continue to grow several days into the dirt nap. Can’t immediately see how that’s helpful. But as they say “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

WE WERE ON THE INTERSTATE in a driving, impenetrable rain. Myself at the wheel. K-Mac on the 50 caliber. A flat-bed semi, hauling a ginormous something or other, passed us on the right—always a welcome, not-just-thinking-about-myself, random act of eat-my-shorts by a trucker with mud flaps for brains.

As it passed, it threw up an ocean of water against our windshield. I caught only a quick look at the banner flapping from the back of the trailer.

To K-Mac I hollered “Did that say ‘Oversized Toad?’”

“No,” she remarked with prejudice. “It said Oversized Load.”

I stared into the rain. The truck, by now, was practically invisible.

“Are you sure?”

It’s a question I like to ask but which K-Mac, for her own reasons, prefers to hate.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

I was pretty sure I heard teeth grinding.

“How big a toad was it?”

“IT SAID LOAD,” she whispered sweetly.

That night, I looked out the window. Clinging to the other side of the glass, defying gravity, sat a toad. It appeared to be an above-average sized toad–although I am no toad expert.

When I pointed it out to K-Mac, she went porcupine, releasing quills in my general direction.

“It said LOAD.”

Well.

Of course, I dreamed that the oversized toad escaped from that truck and hopped to our house where it challenged me to mano a toado combat. Seriously, toad dreams are the worst.

Note: No toads were physically hurt in the writing of this post. As for their feelings, you’d have to ask them.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2015, all rights reserved.