Elephant check

I was in the counting house, counting all my money. Okay, our money. K-Mac sat counting the ways I needed to improve if I expected her to hang around for another 50 years.

She suggested I stop fantasizing all the time and start getting real. No more stories about being followed home by a sad elephant.

I’d known this day was coming. I knew it the day we first met, back in the days when it was still legal to carry a banjo in broad daylight. But I just said “Sure, no more fantasy.” Too glib? To show good faith I added “Heh, heh.”

But when I stood, I noticed I had a pocketful of rye. And no, not the drinking kind. I walked into the kitchen and struggled not to see four and twenty black birds sitting in a pie. It didn’t make sense. K-Mac is a vegetarian and doesn’t eat anything that has (had) a face (or beak). Or poops when it flies.

I stepped outside and found my other pocket filled with wry. Completely new territory for me.

I met Jones, the grouch next door. “Do you know the muffin man?” he barked.

“The muffin man?” I frowned. How long has Jones been barking?

“The muffin man,” he barked again.

Wow, no doubt about it. “Uh, the muffin man who lives on Drury Lane?”

“No, no, no,” said Jones, scratching his armpit with his foot. “You’re thinking of that Porgie idiot.”

“You mean Georgie Porgie?”

“How many other Porgies do you know?”

“Isn’t he the one who drives the pudding and pie truck?”

“He got fired,” Jones growled. “Little pervert kissed the girls and made them cry and when the cops came out to make him pay, Georgie Porgie lawyered up. He’s now in seclusion, asking everyone to respect his choice of ties.”

“By the way,” I said. “I found my pockets full of rye and wry this morning.”

“You don’t say,” he said.

“No, I did say,” I said. “I didn’t don’t say. That’s not who I am.”

In a bar I ordered a tankard of world peace. The barkeep, an elephant, said “Pease porridge hot or pease porridge cold?” I asked which he recommended and he shrugged. “Some like it hot, some like it cold. Some like it in the pot, nine days old.”

“It must be like cement.”

“It’s a very nice pot, though,” he said.

“How much?”

“How much you got?”

“I have a pocket full of rye.”

“Who doesn’t?” he said sourly.

“What about a pocketful of wry?”

“Is that the stuff that makes you speak wryly?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’ll ask Reilly when I see him.”

Just then, Reilly rushed in and told us the village idiot, Old Man Dumpty, fell off the border wall separating here from there. I went out and saw all the king’s horses and all the king’s men galloping up.

“What are they doing?” I asked an acquaintance, Peter Peter.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Peter. “They’re trying to put Dumpty together again.”

“Hmm,” I said, knowing from experience how quickly horses can go bucking crazy when trying to reassemble an egg. (And I wondered, not for the first time, why Mrs. Peter would name her son Peter Peter. I mean how could she know he’d grow up to be a professional pumpkin eater?)

By then, my pocketful of wry felt empty, bringing me semi-closer to reality. I hailed a passing tub and rode home with a drunk butcher, baker and candlestick maker. When I got out, the baker whispered  “Rub a dub dub. Pass it on.”

K-Mac met me with some sad news. “Mr. Jones has been acting like a mad dog,” she said. “They came and put him down.”

“What?” I blurted. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Of course I am,” she non-blurted. “I was out making a random elephant check, when I saw you get out of that tub.”

“Heh, heh,” I hehhed. “Too much fantasy?”

No,” she said with a smile I hadn’t seen since the Orioles last won a game. “Not if you show me how you did that.”

I was overcome by an immediate, loving feeling that the next fifty years were going to be even more interesting than the last. Rub a dub dub interesting. Alert the media.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Dogs I Have Known | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Nightmare traffic

Unidentified Patient (Not me): Does any of this make sense?
Dr.Pepperoncini: I could ask “Any of what?” and you could blather on and while you’re blathering I could be thinking about what ruined my chances of becoming  a sturgeon and you could say “Excuse me. Are you even listening to me?”

UP(NM): Excuse me, did you say sturgeon?
Dr. P: When?

UP(NM): Just now. You said something about ruining your chances…
Dr.P: No, I said pants.

UP(NM): Pants?
Dr.P: Yes, it sounds like chance. A lot of people make that mistake.

UP(NM): No, you said chances, which doesn’t sound at all like pants. Unless you say pantses.
Dr.P: Oh no. Pantses is plural for pants.

UP(NM): But pants has no plural. It’s just pants. You’d never say pant.
Dr.P: Did you ever see a thirsty dog with it’s tongue unrolled the full 9 feet, gasping for water? It can never say pant either. But it’s still very thirsty.

UP(NM): Look, pants is a non-count word. It’s like folk. Or audience. Or music.
Dr.P: Which is why you may see someone singing folk music, but there’s never an audience. Especially if there’s a banjo which, by law, can never come within a hectare of another banjo. Did you know that?

UP(NM): You were talking about medical school and wanting to be a sturgeon. You meant surgeon, right?
Dr.P: Actually, I wanted to be a podiatrist.

UP(NM): Sometimes known as the banjo of medical specialties.
Dr.P: But I realized I didn’t like handling other people’s feet. There’s more between the toes than meets the eye, you know.  Once, a woman came in to have her foot fetish removed. She called it Eddie and it became clear Eddie was having no part of no stinking removal. I’m not ashamed to say I ran like the upstairs toilet. Next day I signed up for brain sturgery.

UP(NM): You went from feet to brain? That’s a big jump. I don’t see the connection.
Dr.P: Because, if you think about it, there is no connection. It’s like saying you’re connecting your new DVR. Look. You can’t connect your DVR. No one above the age of reason can. The terms “Connect” and “DVR” are simply strangers in the night. Sometimes in the afternoon.

UP(NM): So, this sturgeon thing. No one ever told you it’s a type of fish?
Dr.P: When I told them in medical school I wanted to be a sturgeon, they pointed me toward the school of psychiatry. In there they had no problem with someone wanting to be a sturgeon. In fact, as I found out, there is a crying need.

UP(NM): Who was doing the crying? Surely, you don’t mean the sturgeon?
Dr.P:  They don’t like to be called Shirley. It makes them weepy.

UP(NM): Wait a minute. Are you saying that fish cry?
Dr.P: So. You’ve never been to a fish fry?

UP(NM):  Fry? I thought we were talking about crying?
Dr.P: We can talk about crying. How often do you cry?

UP(NM): Look, I don’t cry.
Dr.P: Is it because you don’t think a grown fish should cry? It sounds like you’ve never gotten in touch with your inner flounder. My guess: you’re worried your fish-hood  would be compromised if you cried.

UP(NM): I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I am not a fish.
Dr.P: And how long have you felt this way?

UP(NM): Okay. We’ve gotten off track. Let’s go back to when you were in the psychiatry ward, uh, I mean department.
Dr.P: Did I mention that self-hating flounder are more prevalent than self-hating sturgeon. Just not as self-aware.

UP(NM): Come on, Why do you insist on saying sturgeon?
Dr.P: It just sounds better, don’t you think? Like Parsippany, New Jersey. It practically rolls off the tongue compared to Secaucus or West Orange or Brick Township. Which is why I wish I was in Parsippany.

UP(NM): That sounds like a song title
Dr.P: Yes. It goes like this:

(A one and a two)

I wish I was in Parsippany, N.J.
The weather there is always okay
And when it isn’t I always remember
That always doesn’t always scan in December
If you’re shoveling up what I’m laying down, down, down
Lots of snow in Parsippany on the ground, ground, ground,
Oh yeah.
Pick that thing.

UP(NM): This whole conversation is a dream, isn’t it?
Dr.P: I could say yes and you could blather on and while you’re blathering I could be thinking about how you drank six Yoo-Hoos last night and haven’t yet visited the head and how your bladder is trying desperately to get through all the night traffic to tell your brain: Dude. Get. Up. And. Go. NOW.

UP(NM): Excuse me, are you even…Holy Moley. Make way. Clear for action. Splice the main brace. Man overboard.
Dr.P:This is why I warn psychiatry students against a career analyzing dreams in media  res.* Billing is a nightmare.

*But not in Media, Pennsylvania

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Uh oh, fake Haiku

Saturday, a day
for fixing, or feeling guilt
for fixing nada.

A day to repair
the broken strings of harmo
dang, I whacked my ny.

Mow the lawn, rake leaves,
Vacuum downstairs then the up.
Say goodbye to nap.

Out for groceries,
list scribbled in red crayon.
Who stole the ink pen?

Jeepers, store looks packed.
Pushing, shoving near veggies.
Ho boy, no bok choy.

Please point me toward
the good tomatoes, my man.
These here are tooth proof.

Take-a-number’s jammed.
Madding cold-cut crowd as one:
“Slice my baloney!”

Can’t read your writing:
ketchup or kaopectate?
No prob, it’s all good.

Ahead, woman stops.
My nose bumps her long baguette.
We swap insurance.

Got burgers, got shrimp.
Got week-old donuts on sale.
The essence of life.

Excuse me, cant find
those talking M and Emziz.
Only mutes; what gives?

Where’s the firm tofu?
Super-firm you got, but man,
do I look super?

Checkout woman asks
Did you find everything?
No, I say. She smiles.

Ten cents off on gas,
bags in trunk, beer store beckons.
Shrimp on the barby!

Saturday, a day
not for the lame or the halt.
Well, lame, but no halt.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The biggest idiot

  • A History of Social Norms, by Edna St. Vitus-Dance. Barns & Silo, $29.95 (Big Chief tablet-paper edition, with-visible-flecks-of-wood-and-lumberjack)
  • The Abandonment of Social Norms by Logan Bologna. Tinker, Evers & Chance, $6.43
  • Bite Me, Norm by Kirk Tiberius James. Julius Manboob & Mortified Sons, $1.29 print-on-demand (two-printers, no waiting.)

Three remarkable new books examine the growing public disregard for the social norms which have unofficially guided civilized societies to civilized civility ever since the end of the very uncivil Dark Ages (aka the Age of Rude Noises.)

The end came suddenly, according to St. Vitus-Dance. One night in the Dark Ages (it was always hard to tell if it was night or day or even the day before yesterday) a band of alt-hunters and alt-gatherers stumbled out of a diode mine and headed home. They’d spent the whole day hunting and gathering dark-emitting diodes (D.E.D) which they sold to people whose lives were just a little too bright for Dark Ages sensibilities.

Suddenly, one of them held up a D.E.D. and shouted “Hey, Ed, look. If you twist it like this, it lights up.”

Thus were light-emitting diodes (L.E.D.) discovered, instantly ending the Dark Ages and changing forever uncivilized practices such as eating with your elbows or knees on the table, or without napkins and, all too often, sneezing into the soup tureen and calling it chowder.

Philosophers, whose scribbles until then were transcribed in the dark — assisted only by mercenary Flemish fireflies — called it the Age of Enlightenment. Significantly, latter-day historians and phys-ed luminaries called it the Rush-Bagot treaty. But that is another story.

Author St. Vitus-Dance is a direct descendant of Todd, the Knucklehead, a licensed feeler and interpreter of head bumps in the Really Dark Ages. Todd was one of the world’s first phrenologists (an early term for one who studies bumps found on the heads of phriends).

Sadly, he was accused of feeling bumps nowhere near the head, leading the angry husband of one bumpee to shout “You want head bumps? Try these, whacko.” On a bright note, although Todd was burned at the stake, today he is considered the Father of Whack-a-Mole.

St. Vitus-Dance says the very first social norm adopted by any society dates to the very early days of rock concerts (pre-roll era). She writes that obnoxious fans, overcome by a desire to get down and get funky at the local hard rock quarry, blocked the view of those behind them on the pricey club-level stonework.

Since then, cries of “DOWN IN FRONT, THEN GET FUNKY,” became an effective social norm at your better quarries. Just as the cry “Watch the spear, man! I SAID WATCH THE DAMN SPEAR, YOU KNUCKLEHEAD! ” halted the practice of reenacting Brontosaurus hunts with sharpened sticks during crowded cave parties.

In his Abandonment of Norms, Bologna, a retired computer farmer, uses the example of people sitting behind you in the movie theater to demonstrate how norms have slowly eroded.

“Once upon a time, a family of 12, plus the kid from across the street, might file into the row behind you with hardly any fighting or seat kicking. The norms at the time allowed for polite whispering to the person in front of them (you), asking if they (you) could look down on the floor and see that little brown milk dud that Gimli, son of Gloin, dropped and it rolled under your seat and could you grab it and pass it back?”

Unless, of course, it stuck to your shoe, says Bologna. In which case the norm was for you (you) to  say something like ‘Jeezy Farouking McWeezy, it’s stuck on my shoe’ and to spend the rest of the movie whining (the norm called for ‘softly’) and trying to scuff it off.

Normfully, the person behind you would thoughtfully remind you that a putty knife could scrape off most of the mashed dud, then you (you) could throw it away, or simply eat it, as long as you hadn’t walked on it too much.

But no more, says Bologna.

“Nowdays the trend is for someone behind you to lean forward, press a bolo knife against your neck and spit out something like ‘My Milk Dud. Get it! And while you’re at it, get out.’ No please, no thank you, no oops, my bad.”

Indeed, Tiberius James, an award-winning hot dog glutton, describes in Bite me, Norm, how the phrase “Bite me, Norm” became the rallying cry of young, upwardly mobile, anarchists and wealth planners when asked by anyone named Norm to “Use a handkerchief, for God’s sake.”

Through the ages, social norms have bolstered manners. Consider how the “oh-my-goddings” and “how-dare-you-you-nasty-young-mans” of so many Aunt Hermiones and Sister Milo Marys have curtailed wanton boofing at Thanksgiving gatherings, and the practice of bending over, dropping trou and shouting to passersby “Vouchsafe my rosy red vouch.”

On the downside, sects of overly strict grammarians and word diddlers gained power. This gave rise to controversial rules such as the mandatory use of the term “male-thingie” when referring to a man’s male-thingie — instead of the more medically precise, though somehow vulgar “Bushrod Johnson.”

And who can forget the mandatory use of the hortatory subjunctive? Thus, Cicero’s well known “Let us eat Homer’s shorts,” or the more demure “Granted that The Donald is not the biggest idiot, at least he is an idiot.”

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Out goes the bad air (Encore)

Dearest reader (but I digress),
If I may be frank, I would much rather you call me Ishmael. The point is, after being promulgated last week, the post “Out goes the bad air” suddenly disappeared from my official record. Pffffft, so to speak. It’s gone and I don’t know who got it and hated it, didn’t get it and hated it anyway, got it and read it and have no memory of it at all, got it and are now waiting to hear from their lawyer.

My sincerest apologies if you have already read “Out goes the bad air” (unless you liked it and don’t mind reading it again, in which case you are very special.)

I am now re-posting the piece, knowing this may inconvenience or confuse you, presuming you are still alive. If not, what a pleasure it has been to be one of my followers.

My regularly unscheduled post will resume, as usual, whenever it does. Let’s say “Soon.” Don’t get that one confused with this one. Just don’t.

Ishmael A. Hint,
AHintOfLight.com

WARNING: REGURGITATED IDEAS AHEAD.

Out goes the bad air

Just for the hell of it, I’ve decided to make fun of the laws of thermodynamics.

It’s my civic duty, after all, to follow our leaders’ example and mock anything I don’t understand. Which, in my case, means a lot of mocking.
Thermodynamics, as you may know, comes down to one very basic and cold reality: No thermo, no dynamics. No collusion. No Russians. No golden showers. No special counsel. No collusion.

But, good news: There are only four Laws of Thermodynamics – much easier to grasp, say, than the 10 commandments (with all those killjoy coveting rules) although not nearly as simple as the Two Laws of Breathing: 1. In goes the good air; 2. Out goes the bad air.

The fun begins when you realize the First law of Thermodynamics is not called the first law. It’s called the Zeroth Law. You see, the day after laws One and Two and Three were added to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, one of those silly physicistic dreamers came up with what should have been the Fourth law of Thermodynamics.

But this new law was so thermoistically dynamic, it created an immediate worldwide Hoohah – unheard of since the introduction of The Law of Perpetual Transmutation of Energy (LOPTOE, aka The Big Toe.)

Far too important to rank as Law Number Four, the phyzzies skipped it ahead to the front of the line.

What?

My thoughts exactly. You can’t just cut ahead of someone or some law without causing outrage. Thus the shouts of “Hey, I was here first, you big zero” and “I’m never first, even when I’m first.”

So, the phyzzies, being very adept at adeption transmutation, renamed it the Zero law, because duh, zero comes before one. You would then have Laws Zero, 1,2 and 3.

But how many people would follow the rule of law if the law was called Zero? Uh, that would be Zero.

So they cleverly added a th, making it sound a lot like fourth or fifth or 166th and they called it Zeroth, as in squadooshth. That made the old first law of Thermo-D the second law, although it’s still called the first law. Cute. The second law, which is now the third law, is still known on the street as “The Deuce.” The old third law should be the fourth law — I hope you’re following this — but it isn’t because there is no fourth law even though there are four laws of thermodynamics. So much for the precision of science. And these are the people who want us to believe the earth is round?

Do we need so many laws? We already have the moral laws, the universal laws, the laws of motion, the laws of robotics, the laws of fashion, the laws of the jungle (which are the laws of fashion). There are Newton’s laws (My fave: Watch your head.) Nebuchadnezzer’s First law: Two z’s please. Siddhartha had only three laws, the most important being “Don’t forget the other two.”

So, let’s get down to it. What are the four laws of thermodynamics?

Zeroth Law: If objects A and B are in thermal equilibrium with object C, then A and B are also in thermal equilibrium with each other. Sha-boom! Which is also the definition of a three-dog night.

1st Law: The total amount of energy in the universe is constant; energy cannot be created or destroyed — but it can be sanded and shellacked and given as house-warming gifts.

2nd Law: This covers the irreversibility of natural processes and their tendency ( aka “the baked bean factor” ) to lead towards spatial homogeneity. Anyone subjected to the natural process in close quarters, understands the irreversibility thing. Once it’s out, it’s out. The best you can do is quickly slap your hand over your head (the universal sign for “Don’t look at me”). Spatial homogeneity has to do with moving as quickly as possible to a larger room or empty football field, without dropping your hand from your head.

3rd Law: The entropy of a perfect crystal approaches zero at 0k (Not to be confused with OK or Hunky Dory). Now, in order for motion to stop we have to hit the brakes (thermodynamically speaking) and reach absolute zero. Sometimes, though, you are approached by an absolute zero and told “Stop that right now or I’m telling.”

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Mockery and derision | 3 Comments

How I got to Perth Amboy

Q. I’ve just started writing a really cool story, but I’ve hit a speed bump. In my excitement, I forgot to come up with an idea. Where do you get story ideas?
A. By “you” do you mean me? Or is this more a metaphysical question, where “you” is a substitute for “The universe,” or “The Man Upstairs,” or “The Big Bopper.”

Q. Um, never heard of The Big Bopper. What does he bop that ordinary boppers can’t?
A. You’ll never find out. It’s like standing on a cliff and shouting “Why?” down into the valley. Nobody ever answers, but you keep shouting “Why?” And sometimes “What? Did you say something? Can you repeat? Hello?”

Q. Sort of like going out on a cliff and asking “Why did the bear walk into a bar?”
A. Not quite, kid. More like “Why does a bear walk into a bar?”

Q. What’s the difference?
A. If the bear did walk into a bar, that’s what we call an empirical fact. You know it because you saw it. Maybe you went inside to be sure and nearly got trampled to death by all the people running out. In empirical-speak that’s called “The Empire Strikes back.”

Q. But why did he walk in there?
A. That’s the problem with the did question. Maybe he had to use the restroom. Maybe he heard they had Milk Duds in their vending machines. Maybe he was looking for Gluten-free beer. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Who knows? All you know for sure is that the bear is inside the bar. Everything else is rock and roll.

Q. But maybe…
A. Look, the real question is why does a bear walk into a bar. Very smart people have been trying to answer the does question ever since they invented bars. My own theory: no bear knows why he walks into a bar. Why not? Because they have bear brains. It’s like a nun once told me: “You’re not as smart as you look and you don’t look very smart.”

Q. What if the bear didn’t walk into the bar? What if he saw a donut shop just down the street and went there?
A. You mean hypothetically, of course?

Q. Maybe he has a thing for sprinkles.
A. I can see a bear walking into a bar and not being noticed right away because it’s dark and he, the bear, is dark. And since people are drinking it may take some time for them to convince themselves that yes, that’s a bear sitting on the next stool.

Q. So?
A. In a donut store you have bright lights. Very bright. You can count individual nose hairs in the ear of the guy next to you. Then, there’s the lines. It’s well known that bears don’t like lines. But here you have people lined up for coffee. People lined up for donuts…

Q. Or people lined up for sauerkraut because they cut class the day it was explained that sauerkraut and donuts live on different planets.
A. The point is, everyone sees that a bear just walked in. They’d be screaming and scrambling to get out of there.

Q. But why not screams of delight? Everyone crowding around the bear asking him “Can you talk? What’s it like being a bear? Have you escaped from a zoo? Can we talk? Do you understand the roughing the passer rule? Can I get a selfie with you? Can you give me a lift to Perth Amboy?”
A. So. You want a story? There’s your story.

Q. Wow, you’re right. Like a sci-fi story by Philip K. Dick.
A. Careful. Never call a bear a dick. Remember how Moby Dick turned out.

Q. That was a whale.
A. And what is a bear? The Moby Dick of the forest.

Q. So what should I call my bear?
A. That’s a no-brainer.

Q. I don’t underst…
A. Sprinkles. You’re welcome. Next!

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q., News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

The smell of anarchy

I do some of my best thinking in the shower. Just me, hot water, a bar of soap and a wandering mind.

(By the way, when you tell someone you took a shower and you receive a standing ovation is it important to clarify whether or not you removed your clothes before hand? Or is that detail pretty much understood except by most people in Congress who, if their clothes are soaking wet every morning when they arrive at the Immigrant Inquisition, might have difficulty getting re-elected?)

Not so long ago I stood in the shower and started thinking about a sports report on TV. Our big slugger was placed on the Disabled List because he “tweaked his groin.” And while I was soaping my bald spot I had this thought: Do we really need to know a ballplayer ‘tweaked his groin?’ What does that even mean? If it’s what I think it means, wasn’t that a mortal sin back in the day when nuns had to be licensed wrestlers?

An unconnected thought (UT) popped into my wandering soapy mind: To keep from forgetting important meetings and chores, you should write things down on a to-do list, then draw a line through each one when it is completed.

Remember, if you don’t put it on your list you can’t draw a line through it. Drawing a line through an item on a to-do list is one of those joys that separate us from animals, the people who wear pointy sheets to meetings and those who like to find excuses to say groin.

So. One recent day I went to the store for a new brick of brindle-colored, wash-your-mouth-out-with-brown-soap Fels Naptha (good and so good for you.) Also, I was getting the shakes and an eye tic and badly needed to draw a line through something, anything, on my to do list.

I found the soap aisle packed with man-sized bottles of what appeared to be shampoo or hippopotamus glue. The store brazenly called it body wash.

“Where’s the Fels Naptha?” I queried a passing stock boy. He looked at me as if I’d come from the 20th century. The early part. With all the world wars.

“The soap,” I said.

“You’re standing in front of it.”

“No, the bar soap.”

“You mean bar wash? Two aisles over between the car wash and the sump pump wash.”

“I just want to take a shower.”

“With clothes on, or off?”

Impertinent, I thought, for a stock boy. But then I realized I was talking to a millennial. He stepped forward and grabbed a bottle of something called Axe.

“Axe wash?” I protested. “But I don’t own an axe.”

“It’s the scent of Anarchy.”

“Wow. I love the smell of Anarchy in the morning.”

“You’ll need this, too.” He shoved a rough item into my hand. “It’s like a sponge but it’s actually an exfoliating mesh loofa pouf.”

“Pouf?” I asked, horrified. “I have to wash with a…a…pouf?” But by then the stock boy had moved on, as millennials so often do.

So I took the Axe and the pouf home. I removed most of my clothes, stood under the shower and poured some of the axe onto my pouf. (It just sounds wrong.) It was orange, the color of radiator coolant, but it had a scent vaguely reminiscent of a perspiring marimba player in old Meh-he-co.

According to Google, that’s exactly what anarchy smells like. With just one whiff I suddenly felt like overthrowing the government — and might have, if it hadn’t already been done.

Now I use my semi-automatic, gas-operated, clip-fed, dead-skin-exfoliating lavender loufa pouf for overthrowing the K-Mac regime here at home. Hasn’t worked so far; sometimes I feel like K-Mac knows a little too much about what I’m thinking. (Note for to-do list: Stop using my outside voice inside.)

Anyway, anarchy wasn’t built in a day. So I’m giving it a full week. And a half.

Until then, I just dare you to knock this pouf off my shoulder.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment