Reading of the Will

 

I took a seat in the back row.  Various relatives and friends were dotted about the room on uncomfortable folding chairs.  I thought the entire place was rather cheesy for a lawyer’s office.   The clock up on the left side of the room said 10:07.  The lawyer sitting in the front of the room looked up at it again, and announced that we would start, and that anyone who was late – was just late.  We wouldn’t wait anymore.

It was my uncle who was late.  Isn’t that what they call dead people, the late?  I wondered how that came about.  Why late?  I couldn’t stop thinking about that.  I could see the lawyer talking, but my mind kept playing with words and semantics.  We have an odd language I thought, and even though I was missing everything being said, I couldn’t shut off my internal chatter.  It was annoying even to myself. 

At twenty past eleven I heard my name.  I looked up and noticed several empty chairs.   Apparently, some folks had left, and I hadn’t even noticed.  I didn’t really expect to inherit anything, but you never know.  Anyway, the lawyer was going on and on about the relationship between myself and my late uncle, and how much he had enjoyed my writing over the years, then he finally came to the good part. 

“His entire set of World Book Encyclopedias.”

 

I couldn’t believe it.  Had my uncle never heard of Google?  I guess he was late to the party, as they say.

 

Myrmecophobia

My friend has an irrational fear of ants.

It took all of us to talk him down.

 

You need to change jobs if...

 

   Your boss has no sense of humor.

    They don’t recognize casual Friday.

   They don’t compensate you for overtime.

 You’re the only one that brings in doughnuts.

 You have to park more than two blocks away.

 The night cleaning crew makes more than you.

 They keep cancelling your vacation.

 You’re the only one required to work weekends.

  They charge for Band-Aids.

       Drinking on the job is frowned upon.

 

Leftovers

     Alexa knows the minute Amazon has delivered a package to my mailbox. She announces its arrival and then asks me if I want to thank the driver.

    I don't know who the driver is. Is it a man or woman? Is this the only job they could get, or are they doing this to make extra money while they complete their Master's degree in forensic  photography? Do they have any pictures already, perhaps nice grewsome crime scenes. Did this start off as a hobby?

    Do they already have those little number markers, the ones they set around the body parts when taking the pictures? Did they set a number next to my mailbox when they left my package, then snap a picture?

    No, Alexa. I don't feel comfortable adding this driver to my circle of friends. That whole photo thing just creeps me out. In fact, I'm going to stop leaving a Christmas card in the mailbox. I don't want to be sending the wrong message.

    How do I know that's my real Amazon package and not some grewsome leftover?

I Knew it. I could just feel it.

     The things I see are not always the things I see. An example of that would be the time I was zipping down the highway and spotted a coyote that had been unsuccessful in trying to cross the road.

    I immediately felt bad for the poor critter who was probably just trying to get home.  I didn't want to see it anymore than I already had, but as I passed along side of it I could see it was simply a large piece of tire.

    Another time I was sure there was a deer laying dead along the edge of the road.  As I got closer, instead of being Bambi, that one turned out to be some sandbags left behind by a road crew.

    OK, here's the thing; I'm not always wrong. Just today, we're heading home from shopping, when Sally spots a yard sale sign.  I hang on for dear life as we make a two-wheeled U-turn.

    We found the house having the sale.  Across the street are woods, with a sign that says, please park here.  We do.  I wait in the car while she trots over to look for bargains.  Now keep in mind, I'm facing nothing but trees, leaves, bushes and carnivorous mosquitoes.

    I strongly sense that something is watching me.  I don't see anything but the feeling is almost overwhelming.  I can hear yard sale voices behind me, but I can't really turnaround that much to see anyone.  Then I remembered my cell phone.  I may not be able to see too far into the woods, but I can snap a picture and then zoom it.  That should give me a better look at whatever it is watching me.

Current View

Got Ya!

 

 

Sheep Dogs

 I remember being quite little; I was in with a small herd of children. We were making our way from class to class in some childhood school setting, and there were hall monitors. I don't recall if the monitors were other teachers, or just selected students who had somehow demonstrated leadership abilities. Then again, maybe they were just little snitches, and the adults had picked up on that.

As I grew, I could see the various aspects of society utilizing the same system. The military had their own way of ferreting out the snitches. If there were some infraction discovered, they would simply punish everyone, until the culprit showed themselves.

Within the civilian workforce they were easy to spot. They always dressed to fit in, they were aggressive, but lacked the ability to make it on their own. They had to make someone else look bad in order to make themselves appear to be the better choice.

Now that I have joined the walker brigade, the monitors keeping us in line are heart monitors. They are strapped right to us, barking whenever we get out of line. There is an invisible tether going to a bank of monitors where snitches sit for hours watching our bleeps and blips.

I'm not sure I understand the importance of keeping the herd together. Albert Einstein was a stray, as was Ben Franklin.
Bob Dylan certainly strayed from the pack. I think it's our strays that help to form our culture. They lend a persona to an otherwise directionless, wandering mass of sheep.

Sorry.  Was that out of line?

DNA verses Gillette

 

     Just recently they have discovered a schematic made by bioengineering pioneer, Frank Meckel, of Yale University.   He identified a DNA link between the Sphynx cat and the basic male Hallmark actor.  It is this gene which allows the male to maintain a 5 o-clock shadow throughout his acting career.   It has become virtually impossible for them to grow a full beard, or ever appear clean shaven. 

    Some have suggested that those carrying this gene display a reduced ability to act or ever be taken seriously.

 

Note: Based on this discovery, opposing views will be ignored.