Blame It On My Muse

While being parked outside a hospital, I observed a man entering it with what looked like one of those coolers that they transport organs in. I also noticed that his head had been shaven in a way that looked like he had had intracranial surgery of some kind, and my muse, who leads a rather idle life, offered these thoughts: 1) Times are really tough when someone needing a brain transplant has to bring it to the hospital because his insurance doesn’t cover transportation or 2) This guy had to actually go out and find his own brain, because the donor search program is so inefficient, and 3) if he’s operating solo, where did he get it? Were laws broken? People killed? Has Costco got some shady deals going on and he got a case of them to improve his chances?

One of my favorite pastimes is hurling epithets at the drivers of other cars, for example, animal-human billingsgate such as capybara-face, mandrill-buttocks, and horse gonad-head, with the aid of my muse, of course, but yesterday, she made me aware of my apparently unconscious habit of always adding the prefix, “little,” when I curse out someone in a small car. So it seems I have either deduced that only little people drive little cars or that the cars, themselves are responsible for their reckless actions, which means I am tossing verbal invective upon inanimate objects. I have been doing this for such a long time that I’m not sure I can stop, although my muse, whose name, by the way, is Plaigia Rizem, has suggested that I just continue my harangue against the little cars, but just spice it up a bit by actually getting out of my vehicle and yelling in the driver’s window, and that inevitably, some big guy or woman would emerge, face crimson-faced with rage, and smash me to a brew-spewing pulp ( Do I drink and drive? Certainly not, Plaigia simply wanted me to use “brew-spewing pulp.”). After concluding that my muse may have a chronic and severe mental illness. I came up with a less lethal cure: I downloaded a picture of Andre the Giant driving a Mini-Cooper, which I now have clipped to my sun visor. It works perfectly, and, in fact, I’ve even doubled my curse word per vehicle output, with nary a thought about size.

Today, I was almost sideswiped by a red pick-up truck with a Confederate flag decal, and Plaigia whispered in my ear, “Red truck, red neck, red state, read ( past tense) nothing.”

Lastly, before retiring to her muse mews she inspired me to write a sentence representing the awesomEST state of the English language in America: “The formAlly laXadaisical realAtor showed her mischievIOUS side by giving her clients jewelEry made from nucUlar waste.”