March of the Convicts

During one such instance I turned only to see my friend Matthew chewing a hole through his bottom lip while making a face as though he’s struggling to pass a ten-pound turd out his five-pound Irish ass. As the smoke billows from the top of my friend’s head (which is now redder then his homemade mittens) I try to convince myself that’s what happens to bald people in the winter; even if he is wearing a wool hat and a hoodie.

I can feel Lucifer tapping on my shoulder and calling me a bitch. How could I stand there while this happens? How could I stand there and do nothing? My feet start to move towards my target, when I realize why I was in line in the first place. Along with knowing someone cares enough to wait for my call, I desperately want to hear if there is any news from my attorney even though I know it’s too soon. So I have no choice but to walk in circles with my friend like the penguins on PBS. To break the tension, I pretend to have an egg carefully tucked between my feet.

In the end, Lucifer lost his battle. His request went unanswered. My decision to live more righteously was still intact. I can laugh with my friend – head still steaming – who is also walking like he has an egg between his boots.

Now, I just have to look skyward and pray that my comfortable wife has a cell phone signal.