August 29: Spread Bad News, Feeling Like Crap, Wale of Toe

"Well,I don't like to spread bad news," said the sheep, "but they're fattening you up because they're going to kill you, that's why."

The old sheep is not a good animal.  In fact, he's kind of an asshole.  He fairly revels in imparting the above wisdom to poor Wilbur, thereby ruining the little pig's life.  There's always one in every barn.

Every place I've worked, every organization of which I've ever been a part, has had one or two old sheep.  Nattering nimrods of negativity.  No matter what is happening, these people always find the dark cloud in a silver lining.

I must say that I can be a little bit of a nattering nimrod.  OK, I can be a BIG nattering nimrod.  At the moment, I'm really sick, I'm looking at a whole semester of tired, and I'm going to spend my three-day weekend sleeping and coughing.  I'm an old sheep right now.  I admit it.

Once upon a time, a shepherd named Nimrod lived in the Valley of Woe.  Nimrod spent every day thinking of all the bad things that might befall him.  Tornadoes.  Fleas.  Bad poetry.  Bad haircuts.  A depressed sheep market.  Nimrod never had a good day.

One day, a beautiful princess came by Nimrod's pasture and asked him to be her prince.  Nimrod turned her down because of the possibility of political revolution.

Another day, a wealthy duke rode by Nimrod's pasture and offered to give him a castle, no strings attached.  Nimrod turned him down because of the possibility of marauding cannibals.

Yet another day, a wizard flew by and offered to make Nimrod immortal.  Nimrod turned him down because of the possibility of the sun collapsing into a black hole.

Nimrod eventually died in his pasture, with his sheep, worrying about a mole on his left buttocks.

Moral of the story:  keep your head out of your ass.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

OK, this is funny.  You have to admit it.

May 23: Fattening You Up, Boo, Fairy Tale Surprise

"Just the same, I don't envy you," said the old sheep.  "You know why they're fattening you up, don't you?"

The old sheep isn't a very kind animal.  She seems to absolutely revel in telling Wilbur that he's doomed.  Of course, her revelation sends the little pig into a downward spiral.  He goes from being happily content to throwing himself down on the ground in despair.

That's the problem with surprises.  They can be wonderful or horrifying.  For me, there's nothing worse in the world than surprises.  I suppose that's because I've had my fair share people walking up to me and yelling "Boo!"  Metaphorically, of course.  Everyone loves to share news.  Good news is wonderful.  Bad news is even better.

These last couple of weeks, I've been waiting for a good "Boo."  I received one last Sunday when I found out I was the new Poetry Editor of the university's literary magazine.  But, one good "Boo" deserves another.  I'm tired of bad "Boos."  Death.  Job loss.  Bills.  I want . . . crave more good "Boos."

It's been a very long week.  I've learned lots of new things, met lots of new people.  New, new, new.  Today, all I've been thinking about is this:  sitting in my living, typing this post, and watching Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris.  That's exactly what I've been doing, and I haven't felt this relaxed for the last five days.  I'm comfortable, surrounded by everything that sort of defines me as a person.

And I am getting way too deep for a Friday night.

Once upon a time, a man named Gable lived on an island in the middle of a huge sea.  He lived there to avoid surprises.  Gable ate oatmeal every morning for breakfast.  He read the same book every day.  Moby Dick.  He had a peanut butter sandwich for lunch.  Went for a swim in the afternoon.  Grilled cheese for dinner.  And then more Moby Dick before bed.  Every day.

Then, one morning, Gable decided to eat bacon and eggs for breakfast.  The bacon slid down into his windpipe, and, because he lived alone on an island in the middle of a huge sea, Gable choked to death.

Moral of the story:  Who the hell reads Moby Dick every day?  Oh, and bacon can kill you.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

This or oatmeal?