A nightmare
scenario replayed continuously in my mind last night as I tried to fall sleep:
Two delivery men, one from UPS and another
from FedEx, arrive at a man's house simultaneously. Deliveries in
hand, they race each other up the walkway toward homeowner Harold Johnson, who, accompanied by his sprightly wiener
dog Gayla, has just stepped out
for the morning paper.
"Here’s that jar of honey you ordered, Mr. Johnson!""Here’s that jar of pubes you ordered, Mr. Johnson!"
Gayla, freakishly
long and low to the ground so as
to be difficult to see from eye-level, somehow wraps herself around the legs of
both oncoming men just as they're within stride of Mr. Johnson.
Mr. Johnson sees the coming misfortune and
raises his arms in a futile gesture of defense.
"NooooOOOOOoooOoOoOO!!!!!!"
At this point, if I were sleeping, I would pray that God wakes me so I wouldn't have to see the aftermath. No dice, God would say, before throwing his head back and laughing horribly.
The glass jars collide in midair, breaking
open and thoroughly coating a disbelieving Mr. Johnson with their
contents.
As punishment for her misbehavior, Gayla, previously an object of
adoration for her loving master, is sadly put down a 30-foot well.
Ugh. Can you imagine?