As you are well aware, this is National Humor Month.
What do you mean you didn't know?
How could you not know? I have only written three posts about it. Where have you been? It is clear that it is time, my dear friend, for you to evaluate your priorities. What are you doing this weekend, if not reading my blog? Gardening? Biking around town running errands? Throwing open your windows, blasting music and sprucing up your house from top to bottom? A total waste of time, time you could be spending reading and re-reading all of this stuff that I have so carefully written for you to read. If you were up to date on your Callithump Thunderblog reading, you would know how important it is to get your daily dose of humor and you would be spending your time in pursuit of the loud belly guffaw, which you would find right here.
But today, I write not of comedy, but instead tragedy.
I suppose that tragedy is a necessary part of life. For without it, would there be comedy? I think not. It is necessary to have one extreme for the other to exist. But that doesn't make it any easier when tragedy strikes.
And this week tragedy struck. What follows is a tale not for the weak of heart. Be warned. It might make you cry.
The story begins, as most stories do, with a hunger. A hunger that can only be satisfied with...
Tacos.
Yes. Tacos. Three tacos, to be exact. Loaded with guacamole, beans, cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, sour cream on crispy...
got that? CRISPY taco shells...
Not those ridiculous soft taco shell nonsense flour tortillas. Crispy and delicious corn taco shells enveloping delicious taco fillings. A marriage made in heaven.
Yes. This is how my story begins. (Screen dissolves into wavy flashback lines.)
I am buying these tacos. I have ordered them and I am sitting patiently on a chair waiting for these three delicious tacos to be cooked and packaged and given to me in exchange for money. And when they are done, I pay for them. The person selling them to me tries to give my 40 some odd cents change, but I politely decline, rooting around in my change purse for money to give to her. A tip. She brought me those tacos. She should have a little extra something in her pocket for her efforts. I produce a few quarters and tell her apologetically, "It isn't much, but I am poor." In these hard economic times, I know that she will understand that producing that meager tip was a sacrifice on my part, and will realize the depth of my appreciation.
And it is true. I really don't have any extra money. I should not be spending any money on tacos. But I am so pressed for time. My days are so packed full that too often I allow myself the extravagance of having someone else prepare food for me.
I decline the plastic bag that is offered, opting to clutch the container in my hands rather than dangle it carelessly while I walk, in order to prevent spillage. I take the shortcut through a neighboring building in order to get to my car. As I round the corridor, my eye catches a glimpse of a security camera perched on high. I smile to myself as the image forms in my mind of a security guard watching me happily skip down the hall with my tacos.
My drive home is uneventful. If I were a cartoon, the drawing of the car would be accompanied by the words, "Vroom, Vroom," and the thought bubble above my head would have a picture of tacos in it.
Once home, I make my way inside. Bags falling off my arms, I set things down and look around eagerly for my tacos.
No tacos.
I must have left them in the car.
I go to the car. I look around.
No tacos. I must have overlooked them in the house.
I go back in the house. I look around.
No tacos.
Back to the car.
No tacos. Back in the house. No tacos anywhere.
NO TACOS!
NO TACOS!
Did you hear me? NO TACOS!
The tacos are gone. GONE.
Where they went, I will never know. The only explanation I can think of is that I must have placed them on top of my car in order to let myself in. And then, it seems that I must have left them there.
As you can imagine, I shed tears that night. I reluctantly ate yogurt and granola, which is good for breakfast, but it makes a lousy dinner, especially when you had every reason to expect to be eating tacos.
And that, dear reader, is my story of tragedy.
If you have been reading this blog religiously, like you should, a little tragedy sprinkled in here and there should be, well, no great tragedy. After all, you have been inoculated with a steady stream of the best medicine.
Keep laughing. It really does help.
Go ahead and click on the teeny envelope icon and send this post to a friend. Don't be jerky and claim that you wrote it because I wrote it, damn it.
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