Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Encounter at the Park

It was a beautiful day at the park. The sky was a deep shade of blue, punctuated by a few wispy clouds that wandered lethargically across the broad expanse. The meditative quiet was interrupted only by the occasional splash as a duck made a practiced landing on the pond. A few geese floated serenely along and overhead a bird sang merrily.

Suddenly the sky darkened and I felt a drop of rain hit my cheek. I reached up and brushed it away. It was rain, all right, but it seemed different somehow. Not only wet, but sticky. It also smelled bad, like a raging case of ineptitude. I glanced over my shoulder (only slightly throwing my neck out of joint) and realized the source of the bad turn of events. A red Mazda RX-8 had pulled into the parking lot. I groaned and clutched my stomach, which had just started to feel sick.

The Mazda turned into a parking space, the bumper scraping onto the curb. The front tires followed suit and the car teetered there for a moment, rocking back and forth as its driver tried to figure out the manual transmission. Apparently giving up, the driver killed the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. I watched as he fumbled with the door handle and a mere five minutes later managed to open the door and step out. He saw me and waved. It was Paul.

"God, I hate him so," I whispered.

"Me, too," said God. "You want I should smite him?"

"Maybe later. Like when I'm not around. I don't want to get any on me."

Paul saw me and waved. He started walking forward, not noticing that he had shut one of his pants legs in the car door. He didn't slow down, even when the pants leg ripped completely off and dangled from the door, all sad and tattered.

"God, he's so stupid."

"Hey, I did the best I could," God said. "What, you think I can work miracles?"

Paul loped toward me. He tried to wave again, but forgot how and slapped himself in the face. He looked confused and staggered sideways, punted three ducks in quick succession, and then fell down in a crumpled heap. After a few experiments, he managed to stand up.

"I am here to see the ducks!" he announced in a lilting, unnecessarily loud voice.

I pointed. "They're over there. Help yourself."

"Don't mind if I do!" He grabbed up a duck and began stuffing it into his pocket. It quacked loudly and clacked its bill. Paul performed a horrible little dance of pain. "Ow, my dinkie!" He thrust the duck away and punted it into the middle of the pond to join its friends. "Take that,"


"Yeah! Take that, you duck!" He grinned and it was then I noticed he'd been eating Oreos. "Guess I told him, didn't I not?"

I winced and looked aside. "You did, indeed. And now if you'll excuse me, I have some hating to do." I turned and began walking to my car. As I drove off and Paul disappeared from sight, the storm clouds rolled away and the sky returned to its former splendor. Coincidence? You be the judge.


Paul FooDaddy Brand said...

I do so love to punt me a duck or three! Hurf!

FooDaddy's FooDaddy said...

Duck-smitin' and duck-stuffin' do go together.
This is a great oldie from one of the blogs-of-the-stupid-diaspora. Glad to have it here.

FooDaddy's FooDaddy said...

Also I like the subtle move toward Yiddish: "You vant I should smite him? Oy, votta schnorrer!"

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