Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, September 16, 2010

For Promised Joy

“The best laid plans of mice and men oft go amiss, and leave us naught but pain and grief for promised joy.” Robert Burns, Poet

No genius is needed to arrive at a simple conclusion: Things don’t always work out according to our plans. Which gives some credence to the philosophy that if life weren’t so serious, it’d be a joke. That in itself begs the question: What if life were intended as a joke in the first place? Wow…far out!

Alright, I hear scoffers, laughing, dissing the Theory of Chaos. But you must admit that many, if not most, of your carefully crafted, can’t-lose schemes have failed to satisfy your carnal cravings and have come to naught. Shouts of, “Give us proof,” send a message that proselytizing has failed to persuade you of this possibility. Read on.

Last night I shook my fist at the heavens, saying to those within earshot, “I’m getting a good night’s sleep tonight!” My wife rolled her eyes, shaking her head at such a preposterous pronouncement. She said, “Better not let Her hear you say that!” (Some think that God is a woman, you know. If it proves to be the case, that’d explain why men’s plans often go awry, dooming them to perdition.) Now, is this not prima facie evidence that life is at least first cousin to a joke? I continue.

Well, you can guess what happened to my sleep plan. About 2:00 I heard a loud explosion. The house shook violently. Then, silence. Eerie. An explosion? An intruder? I lay there in the darkness, wide awake, waiting, waiting. But for what I didn’t know. More silence. Fear gripped my spine. I got up, turned on all the lights, searched the house. Nothing. Even the dogs were sleeping. Strange. Back to bed.

Do dreams make sounds? Did I dream it? I pondered the questions. Meanwhile, Sirens danced in the ether of my gray matter. Packs of wild dogs roamed the littered streets of my semi-consciousness. Sleep fled.

A line queued in my sleepless state. The IRS led the way, pounding on my door, demanding payment. Next, bankers and lawyers, delivering writs and warrants, foreclosure notices. Women I’d insulted, blondes particularly, cried for retribution. Others. The line grew longer and longer. It went on for hours. I could stand no more.

I staggered into the kitchen for coffee. The dogs barked, demanding to be fed. So much for my good night’s sleep. Then the phone rang.

Ace called with bad news. “Watermelon Man (all our friends have sobriquets) had a tragic accident,” he said. “What happened?” I asked. He responded, “He took up the dangerous game of croquet, and the game didn't go as planned.” I exclaimed, “Say on, brother.”

He said, “Well, his team got heavy into the afternoon wine. They look silly dressed in their whites, but they’re on tour…it’s the resort ‘in season’ game of choice, you know. A bee musta smelled his breath and thought him to be the honeycomb. Anyway, it flew into his ear and crawled into his brain. The doctor couldn’t get it out without a lobotomy.” Shocked, I said, “What’ll happen to him?”

Ace said, Not good. His life’s changed forever. He thinks he’s a bee and his wife is the Queen. He spends his days flitting around in her garden, sniffing the flowers.” I said, “Look, Ace, his wife has always been a Queen, but don’tcha think he’s gone a little overboard on the flower-sniffing routine?” Ace laughed, saying, “Well,he's a fruit anyway. You know why we call him Watermelon Man, right? Ever since he discovered that watermelons have certain ‘male benefits,’ he eats ‘em at every meal. That boy just ain't right!”

“What’s the long-term prognosis for him
?” I asked. “Don’t know,” he said. “I guess he’ll soon get use to being a bee. But if he tries to produce honey, pal, the folks in white jackets are gonna come and lock him away.”

Do you need any more evidence that things don’t always go according to our plans? If so, then you can fill in the blanks with your own experiences.

There is no guarantee of promised joy out there folks, but there’s nothing wrong with sniffing around the Garden of Serendipity…it may “bee” the final solution.

Bud Hearn
September 16, 2010

No comments: