I’ve had a severe case of brain fog this past week.
Brain fog is a serious condition. It can cause all kinds of problems, like not bothering to pay bills, clean the house, or even brush your teeth. Mainly because you can’t remember whether you brushed them five seconds ago.
Plus, weird things happen. My son, who gets up at the Crack of 4 on his days off, tells me, after searching for something to eat, that the turkey we had the other day had four legs.
In today’s Troubled Times, this seems perfectly reasonable. I know two of them were eaten, which should have left none, but he said he ate one, and there is one left.
I have a touching faith in my guy, who’s the only one who knows how to carve in this house, being a former chef, and he probably conjured up two more legs for this stegasaurian throwback.
It had the requisite two wings, but someone was forward-thinking enough to give this turkey four legs to make landing on a windswept rock somewhere easier to do. This would be back when turkeys were related more closely to eagles, rather than kiwis, and could fly.
Or perhaps my son, who is known around these parts as The Mouse Whisperer, having the ability to put a hat over a mouse playing dead in the middle of the floor and release him into the wild, has whispered two more legs into existence.
The mouse immediately uses his Second Chance At Life to spread the word about local available resources. He comes back with all his low class relatives, who wear those wife beater tee shirts. They drink beer all day, scratch their privates, and watch football games.
My son cooked the turkey in question, rubbing spices on it and whispering Naughty Things while he lightly spanked it. I heard things like “Say my name,” and “It’s gonna happen,” so I have no doubt it grew two extra legs from the excitement.
Or maybe it was the work of fairies. I have a little sign in the living room that says Don’t Piss Off The Fairies.
This is good advice. Things in my house have been broken, things that were necessary for a full life, like a microwave or a hairdryer. The next day they worked perfectly. How do you explain that? Fairies, that’s how. I believe in God, but even I’m spiritually aware enough to know He has better things to do than fix my hairdryer for me while I’m sleeping.
Then there are things like chin whiskers. I’m a regular guy; I like to be pretty. To that end, I do regular maintenance on parts that grow hair, and try to keep hair on parts that look better covered. The very next day, after Ladyscaping, whiskers that would look good on Tom Selleck twenty years ago, are back.
Clearly, I have either Pissed Off the Fairies, or this is just their payment in full for fixing my hairdryer.
“You can’t just use us,” they seem to be saying. “We get to derive some entertainment from our labors since you neglected to leave a saucer of milk on the doorstep.”
They really don’t care if you’re lactose intolerant, or even a bigot, and are intolerant in general.
Of course, we also share quarters with a ghost, but I really don’t think he (I think he’s a he) had anything to do with appliance repair, evolutionary shenanigans, or is even a consultant for Rogaine and the growth of chin whiskers.
I’ve informed him that should he wish to continue enjoying our corporeal hospitality, he has to give us the Lottery numbers. Fair is fair.
In the meantime, I’m still fighting my way through the Brain Fog.