Sometimes my mind wanders

If you see my mind run by, please try and stop it.  I think Adrianna’s brain wandered off, too.

This morning following a promotional piece about Highland Brewing hosting Banjopalooza this weekend (yeah, I’d have to be drunk too), there was a tragic story on the news about a police involved shooting here in my quiet hamlet (you’ll get the pun later) of Waynesville, North Carolina.  Apparently police were called to a scene of shots fired.  They discovered a lone gunman hiding in a church; gunfire was exchanged.  The news reported that there was no word on the condition of the gunman who was shot by the police.  This was being said while in the background a video showed the coroner carrying a body bag out of the church.  I guess they didn’t want to jump to conclusions, I mean maybe the gunman was shy and hid in the body bag to avoid having his face on TV.

This, of course, spawned a conversation between Adrianna and I about reusable body bags and whose unfortunate job it is to wash them out, which obviously led to a discussion on the growing popularity of rental caskets, the age-old conundrum of cremation versus burial, and finally to the Danish practice of temporary interment.  Apparently in Denmark, unless you pay an annual fee, you only get to use your grave for ten years, after that they dig up what’s left and evict you.  (That gives a whole new meaning to, “Your time is up.”)  Come to think of it, that is probably why Hamlet delivered his soliloquy while holding Yorick’s skull.  The poor court jester had to give up his grave to the next corpse.

Adrianna was at a loss to explain to me what the Danes do with the disinterred remains.  We joked about grieving families finding an unexpected package at their front door or the possibility of a truly gruesome corner of the local dump, but we decided that the remains were probably cremated.  Which, of course, is ironic, since the family had incurred the expense of a traditional burial only to have their loved one cremated later.

This led two writers’ minds to ponder what happens if those underpaid grave-digger-uppers unearth a zombie or vampire.  But then we remembered the Midsummer Danish Holiday, Sankt Hans Aften (or Saint John’s Eve) where those wily Danes build bonfires and roast witches on stakes (I’d rather roast steaks and s’mores).  Perhaps this celebration, often blamed on those scapegoats of Western Civilization, the Pagans, is really a masquerade to dispose of the annual cache of the undead Danish.

Anyway, I realize it is spurious speculation, but I think the gunman is dead.  I doubt that Brevard resident, Steve Martin, is going to make an appearance at Banjopalooza.  And I would rather be cremated than dumped in a hole.  

Did you ever wonder what editors do with their time?

Is Sponge Bob Square Pants edible?

Is Sponge Bob Square Pants edible?

Yesterday, I was exhausted from too many 12 hour days of editing, so I scratched out a short shopping list, gathered up some recyclable cardboard and took it downstairs to the basement.  When I switched on the light I realized that my less-obedient dog had decided that the morning rains had left the yard too wet for his delicate feet and peed on the side door instead of walking through the opening and doing his business outside.

I was pissed (forgive the pun).  I washed down the puddle and disinfected the concrete floor before stomping upstairs to let Cory know just how upset I was.  Both dogs were bouncing around in joyous anticipation of a ride in the truck, but my mood soon turned their puppy-upper into a doggy-downer.  They knew there was not going to be an open-window, tongue-flapping delightful trip down the mountain that day.

I grabbed my hat and keys, locked the boys in the house and started down the steep grade of my driveway.  I made it to the gate before I realized I had left the list on the kitchen counter; I swore at myself, but was still so mad at my canine son, I decided to press on relying solely on my memory.  I reached the mailbox at the foot of the mountain and retrieved a couple of checks.  It was there that I discovered that I had also forgotten my glasses.  I wasn’t going back.

I managed my shopping successfully, although I did not buy any meat because I couldn’t make out the pricing.  However I could see well enough that while picking up some cheap macaroni and cheese, I could make out that the brand name was on a Buy-One-Get-One special making it cheaper than the store brand.

Upon arriving back at the house and reminding Cory that I had not forgotten his so-called accident, I began preparing my supper and the mac-n-cheese from which I use a few morsels to convince the dogs that they’re eating people food.  When the water began to boil, I opened the box and to my surprise, out came Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Just below the “Don’t go grocery shopping when hungry” line on my list things to remember, I added, “Don’t go shopping without your glasses or you may end up with a trouser wearing Porifera for dinner.”

And by the way, do Canadian football players have bad breath?  As evening settled across the mountains, I retired to my bedroom, switched on the TV and found an in-progress game from the CFL.  I figured what the heck; it’ll do until the real football starts in another month or two.  I noticed that the offensive and defensive lines, position themselves TWO FULL YARDS (or is it meters?) apart from one another.  How are you supposed to insult the parental lineage of the other players or threaten bodily harm to the other team’s quarterback if you’re not allowed to get any closer than six feet?  Is it really football without the trash talk?  I say we take up a collection for some toothpaste and mouthwash, and teach the Canadians how the game is supposed to be played.  Maybe we should gather up our national stockpiles of Kraft’s Sponge Bob Square Pants and Cheese and ship that up north while we’re at it.