Meetings, Grapes & the Smell of Burning Monkeys

We all listen for the call of the mild folk who think they are in charge as they barge into our lives. We listen and listen for that booger-wiped cacophonic sound of the found-almost-desparate wittled dreams of the glad middle people illuminating seconds of our day with thier  tonsil  massaged prattle.

And when we hear them, we know who they are, what they are, and why they are mutilating our otherwise magnificent minutes. It is simple really, they are too small minded to see over their own life's steering wheel. 

It is the unfermented synthesis of bureaucratic grape soda on the tortured tongue of an unwanted meeting. And we are there at the big maple table  twiddling our pens and remembering some bad sex on the bed of the delightfully unsuspecting parents of some swaggering-inducingly-cute teen girl.

"We need this by Tuesday," they say. Meaning next Tuesday not today, which would, of course be more possible if madness overtook me and I found some hitherto unnkown passion for meaningless labor.

I nod.

I sneeze when the sexy little rays of light from the sun dance on my nose, and then I say, "Anything for you."

I taste the smell of burning and realize -- yes, as always, I am the monkey on fire.