So, here I am, hunched over and doing my best impression of prehistoric man. My spine seems to be curved like the new swooping S-curve Sun design. How the body puzzles me so. So, pop the motrin, and I'll continue to strain in effort to straighten, straighten, almost ... straighten ... nope, back to the distorted reality of the day. Sit up straight! I can't sir, really I can't. I suppose you could lend me a steel rod and some clamps, and a few bolts. That might do the trick. But until then, I'll have to walk the halls in shame, and try not to think too much on how I look like an ass. I'll close my eyes, and try to ignore the thoughts of those I pass by, "what's with him? He's walking around like he's got a stick up his ..." No, no, no, my temporary hallway companions, never mind my smirk and slip of the giggle. For it is not you I besmirch, but that I imagine myself as Dogberry:

"Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!"

So, remember kindly, that if you think I am, know that I am. I am what I am. Right. I'm off to whimper quietly in my office. Behind a closed door, mind you.

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Published: (2005-06-16 06:10:00.0)