Rooster Poop

Rooster Poop

My biggest fear is that little tiny robots will sneak into my ear and have a bake sale.  Actually, that's not my biggest fear.  My deepest fear is one in which Benji, the dark overlord of the Masticating Reggae Bipeds, is my waiter at Spagos. 

Sometimes I have an issue with word definitions.  If, by "fear" you mean

a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid.

then neither one of the previous are actually my greatest.  In that case my greatest fear is of having distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid.  Yes, you guessed it; my greatest fear is of fear (itself). 

Oh, and I'm also afraid of potluck food.  Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, and don't snidely comment about starving children in China.  If you have ever, ever had to face that creepy vegetable and meat substance medley that sister so-and-so concocted out of Satan's personal recipe book, and have not looked into the face of terror, then you are either a braver person than I, or you are a moron (Or both – option C).

Great.  Now I'm feeling hungry (and a little bit naughty).  I wonder if they sell home-made brownies at Spagos?  Wouldn't that be frightening?!

Flash Back

Flash Back

The little rascal was throwing a tantrum.  I could tell by the way he brandished the sickle that this outburst was going to be an interesting one. 

"Pickle!" he yelled, and dropped into a defensive crouch.

Whenever he spoke of brine, I knew his anger was actually just a symptom of a deeper issue.  Take for instance the time he spoke of capers – he was actually having a bout of low self-esteem.  Pickle, indeed!

I began to wave my hands about my head, much like a chimpanzee.  Still gripping the crescent-shaped blade, his eyes began to glaze over as he watched my hypnotic dance.  I smoothly transitioned into "the robot" and finished with some popping and locking.  Perhaps it was overkill.  I do know that the homicidal curmudgeon was fast asleep, cradling a small vest-wearing chicken in his arms. 

Ah, yes.  I waved gently to Señor Pollo, who stoically tipped his sombrero in response.  His tiny spurs jangled on his tiny boots, and I knew that sound to be the sound of peace and joy.  And a free lunch at Denny's. 

My nose picked up the scent of pastry, and I lost all interest in the duo.   Somewhere, somehow, someone was frying donuts; cake donuts if my nose did not deceive.  This could only mean one thing!  Somewhere, somehow, someone was frying donuts; cake donuts if my nose did not deceive. 

I was off!  I was also on my way.

Recumbant PHilosophizing

In reference to the idea that there is such a thing as "free time"…

I disagree.  If you look at the concept from the vantage point of a living human (which is, technically, the only way you can truly look at it) every moment you are alive is "time spent".  This leads me to believe that whether the time has been allotted to be "spent" doing a certain task, or whether it is time in which you have no task prearranged, you are still "spending" it either doing something, or nothing:  You are still paying the clock. 

This brings me to the question of whether or not the concept of time ownership is a valid one.  Whether or not you are around during a specific measure of time, that time is still passing.  You have no control over whether the time will pass, or not.  Does that make sense?  Try this…for the next couple of moments, try not to spend any time.  It didn't work, did it?!  It's not in your control.

In other words, the correct way to frame the concept would more likely be how you "spend life" during a specific measure of time.  It's kind of sobering and arresting when you think of it that way.  Instead of "wasting time" you're "wasting life". 

"I spent 12 hours on the job today."

"I spent 12 hours worth, of my life, on the job today."

Ouch!

Maybe you have already come to this epiphany.  Maybe I'm preaching to the choir.  Maybe the difference in perspective doesn't matter to you.  The more I think about it, the more it does to me. 

Well, I've wasted enough time writing about this whole thing, so I'm off!

The Epic

Alas, the locket was broken…

It began as I tried to coerce the fellows on the corner into a match of jovial word-joust.  Had I known that the scamps were unaccustomed to verbal wrestling, I would not have spoken so severely about their matriarchal lines. 

In short order, it became clear that their loquacial lacking was make up for by their professional pugilism.  My owl-framed spectacles were shattered.  My ruffled shirt was soiled.  And, alas, my lovely pink locket was broken.  

Perhaps Mummy will be able to repair it.  Mummy!