I didn’t get up grumpy – nor retire, grumpy. I simply got up. And staggered about a bit, and downed a glass of milk.
Now none of that sounds at all like I should now be grumpy. But I am.
It could be, I suppose, that I fixed the tire on the mower and mowed the lawn that claimed the tire the day before yesterday. But I don’t think I’m grumpy about that. I mean, the lawn is mowed, after all. And the tire is fixed. Obviously.
I had a biology sandwich – that’s three different meats, coleslaw and two pieces of bread. The bread is one piece to a side, and the coleslaw is in the sandwich. I’ve put out a frozen candy bar to thaw and have a zero coke waiting.
I think, maybe, I’m grumpy from pure inner nature. That’d please me. That’d please me more than a little, as a matter of fact. Because who like’s the idea of someone else making them grumpy? If I want to be grumpy, why can I not be grumpy on my own hook? None of that: “You rotten crotch SOB, you did this to me! You . . . spitter, sputter. . “
Anyway, I thought I’d sweeten up a sour disposition by reading jokes – I know. I know. If I prefer inner generated grumpiness, why should I seek outer sweetness? Uhmm? Why? But I did and it didn’t help.
I read a long joke.
And because I’m grumpy I’m going to tell you the punch line and then I’m going to tell you the real joke. Well, I’m going to explain the real joke and paraphrase the long joke, because the long joke is long and I don’t feel like messing about.
Three guys at heavens gates (don’t say it, this has to start somewhere). The gates are temporarily restricting entry. Saint Peter asks how the first arrived. He’d died of a heart attack; the second? Of a fall; the third wasn’t sure.
The first explained he’d gotten jealous of his wife’s lover and arrived home early and pounded the fellow off the terrace of the twenty-fifth floor, only to see him live, so he dropped the fridge on the guy and that killed him, then the husband died of a heart attack.
The second guy had been exercising on the twenty-seventh floor, gotten dizzy and had fallen over the banister of his terrace, grabbed the railing of the twenty-fifth floor and was knocked off by some guy, but lived, then a fridge fell on him and killed him.
The third guy said that he’d been hiding in the fridge. . .
Harlequin novels are about surviving emotional stress, finding true love, seeking true love, non-explicit sex, public displays of stoicism and empathy and all manner of emotional variances.
The real joke is the Harlequin novel reading cheating wife, whose best friend lives on the twenty-seventh floor, now owns all the estate her murdering husband left to the childless marriage and the insurance representative settling the husbands death claim is due soon; and he’s a handsome devil.
The sign on heavens gates didn’t say how long the restricted entry would last.
Damn. Like I said, I’m grumpy.
From the reaches,