Why Think?

manure managers

A satirical nugget of truth I wrote for someone needing anecdotal evidence. If you spew it, you don’t notice it coming or going.


Shielding my eyes from the onslaught of the descending summer sun, I ran as fast as my middle-aged body would grudgingly allow, my arms pistoning in an obscure pantomime of speed. As I neared the open sliding door, I dove into the sleek helicopter, hands stretched in front of me. A button ripped off the collar of my shirt as I skidded across the soft rubbery floor. I sat up, grabbing the lanyard hook next to the open door, looking down and to my left as the helicopter rapidly lifted away from the parking lot. Lines and arrows on the pavement blurred quickly, and passersby shrank rapidly to the size of toy figurines below. Within seconds, I was several hundred feet above the ground and the whirling ferocity of the helices of the helicopter finally reached my ears, the adrenaline-fueled deafness relenting only slightly. I smelled the sea, calling me forward on the winds that now swished across my smiling face. I knew that a bonfire would soon be ferociously consuming a mountainous array of driftwood along a nameless beach, unknown faces surrounding the ember-laden air near it, as if giving homage to an ancient god. So it begins, so it begins.

(I wrote this in an attempt to accurately describe one of those crazy dreams that possessed me around 3 a.m. this morning – the kind that most love having but detest hearing about from others. I woke up feeling as if I had just dived inside the helicopter and as if there were such a beach waiting beneath the dusky sky. Reluctantly, I went about my day, waiting for the feeling of ‘next,’ the anticipation of a thing to come, to dissipate. Like an impending sneeze in the back of my nose, the tickle of the dream left me disjointed.)


“The rumors of his demise are greatly exaggerated but the likelihood of such isn’t.” – X (My apologies if this is too dark.)


“Trump is pro-gun, as he is always shooting off his mouth.” -X


“Be your own boss,” they advise me. I’d rather be the boss of my boss for fifteen seconds. Please, dear Aladdin, lend me your lamp that I may make it so.


My publicist messed up badly. It wasn’t until after the ceremony they told me it was a eulogy rather than a motivational speech. But I totally killed it, so to speak.


I knew my friends and I probably weren’t going to finish our first movie, mainly because we are lazy. So lazy, in fact, that every time we’d start a scene, the director would grab the megaphone and yell, “Nonaction!”




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