As Lame as a
Duck
by Wayne Scheer
Carole avoids
me like I'm the rain and she doesn't have an
umbrella. For her, I would rise like the sun if
she would only get out from under her Sam cloud.
Sam is Carole's
boyfriend and she clings to him like straight-legged
jeans that's been washed so many times it's as
shrunk as a head on the end of a sharp stick.
Only Sam isn't all that sharp. He doesn't
appreciate Carole the way I do. Sam may look like
a movie star, but he's more like a dwarf planet
that exploded centuries ago and we still see the
light that's not really there anymore.
If she was my
girlfriend, I would treat her like a lady. Not
like a person. To me, Carole is as sensitive as
the princess who, when you put a pea under her
mattress, it makes her butt hurt. Carole is as
special as a talking pig or a car that runs on
lemonade and has leather seats.
She means the
world to me. If I owned a globe, I would name it
Carole.
Whenever I see
her with Sam, I want to spit like a camel with
two humps. But I don't, because I contort myself
like a gentleman. In the olden days, like before
1960, gentlemen challenged their rivals to duels.
Now they just drive by and knife them with cheap
guns.
Instead, I use
my computer, which I know like a book, to make
Sam look so mean Carole will see him the way I
see him, which is like a hungry, drooling
Rottweiler in heat, and not the romantic kind.
So I open a
Twitter account in his name and say things about
Carole that are so nasty I can't repeat them here
because children might read this, not like on
Twitter. And I open another account in my name
and I tweet that Carole is not what Sam said she
is. I say she's as beautiful as a summer rose
before the sun shrivels it and turns it into
compost.
Only I screwed
up and sent my tweet first so it didn't take a
rocket salesman to know what I did and now Carole
won't talk to me, which is like deja vu because
she never talked to me before.
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