Why is it?

A stream, or rather a river of consciousness by Zoltan James

Why is it that when your three pups wake you up in the middle of a winter’s night wanting to go out into the backyard and chase a rabbit and you let them out the sliding glass door forgetting that there’s a friggin’ historic freeze going on and as they race by you your nose hairs suddenly freeze and you can cut your breath into enough tiny ice cubes to serve cocktails for four but that would be absurd since it would only be you, in your jammies, and the pups with snow on their noses, and of course they don’t drink, especially at this time of night, meanwhile while they secure the backyard from illegal rabbigants trying to sneak under the south border fence, then wander off to do their “thang” you decide to do your “thang” and when everyone’s finished with doing their “thang” you all paddle back to the bedroom with three happy tails wagging behind you, only the young pup scurries in first and assumes squatter’s rights on the doughnut bed that the older pup thinks belongs only to her, and the middle-aged one, takes the middle bed, of course, so the little one is sitting there lookin’ all mischievous while the older one just glares at her, and so I have to pick up the little one who by now has her legs stretched out like brakes and I pick her up which feels like dead weight, stumble over the middle pup – I know because he yelps when I step on his tail — and then carry the little one over to the other bed, so the older one can take her preferred bed, otherwise she won’t sleep, but I finally get them all settled, take a drink of water from the night stand, and hop back into bed to cuddle up against my wife’s warm back and try to get back into the dream I was having where I was hugging Annette Funicello in her tight sweater after beating off the advances of those useless wimps, Spin and Marty, whom I think the film director never did like in the first place, and besides its obvious to the whole world that Annette wants me, so I’m half-way there again, talking Mickey Mouse mumbo-jumbo to Annette and am now firmly snuggled under the comforter and got my pillow tucked under me just right when IT begins somewhere back behind my left nostril and into the far hind regions of my brain, the Rhombencephalon, if I recall correctly, for that’s where this little fireball starts to build, which, mind you hasn’t been present for the last twelve hours but, all of a sudden, here she comes, rocketing forward like a Triton missile and this little Mount Vesuvius erupts and explodes in a god-almighty-sneeze that arcs across my wife’s hair and back and she wakes up in a fright and leans up on one elbow and sez, “What the hell jewed do dat fer?” and promptly falls back asleep like nothing happened and then I start wondering how come we’re both talking with a Oklahoma twang at three-fourteen in the a.m.? and is this something all mankind does somehow subconsciously and we just didn’t know it and why don’t we talk with that snooty nasal intonation of the Kennedy’s from Massachusetts, or the hippy-dippy valley girls in Southern California, or the drawl with the “y’all” from Georgia, and so I make a mental note to remember tomorrow night and henceforth if I speak to Annette in Oklahomese, or what — well, anyway, that ferocious fireball of a sneeze happened so fast I didn’t have time to pull my arm out from under the covers, crook my elbow in the politically correct position over my face to stifle the fire hose of a sneeze and now something gooey is gushing down my face under my nose heading pell-mell for my lips, so I roll over faster than a wrestler who’s been pinned to the mat by some sweaty guy named Marty who farts in your face and I reach across the dark of the room to the nightstand with one hand outstretched in search of a Kleenex and the other trying to hold back the sticky mush forming on my mouth and in the act knock over my water glass and that causes a mighty loud racket which rouses the pups and they’re suddenly all standin’ there in a row glaring at me and I can hear them thinkin’ “What the hell jewed do dat fer?” in a Oklahoma twang which I can only imagine because, while they are smart, they still don’t talk, so after I clean up after myself, and the water from the nightstand and the floor and get the pups re-settled into their proper beds, I crawl back into my own and am quite aware that Annette won’t be coming back tonight and that’s when I wonder, not so much about the twang talking, or Annette’s strong animal magnetism for me, for these issues are secondary and tertiary as to the fireball of a sneeze that came out of nowhere at three-fourteen in the a.m.  And, that’s what I want to know?

# # #

Author’s Notes: The above incident did happen to me, in a fashion, and, um, with a few embellishments, but it did keep me awake long enough to write this down for all perpetuity.

And, for the record, I do know that Kleenex is a trademark of Kimberly-Clark Worldwide and that I had the option of using the word “tissue,” but c’mon, really, I ask you what man in the middle of three-fourteen in the a.m. thinks to himself, “My nose is running like Victoria Falls and I need a tissue.  My kingdom for a tissue!  Honey, where are the friggin’ tissues?”  Heck no.  A real man wants a Kleenex at times like these.  In my book, tissues are for wrapping those wine bottles you almost forgot about but that someone thoughtfully brought you last fall as a housewarming gift and now it’s perfect to prepare the presentation in a swaddle of tissue paper and make it look all pretty like you just bought this expensive bottle of wine which you can’t pronounce from Ralph’s Wine Shop and Trailer Rental as a gift forward when you go to visit William and Vilma Torkelsen up the street next Friday night for Chinese food.

And, I shall apologize in advance (actually in arrears) since if you’ve read down this far, it’s too late for absolution, which is my humble way of saying if I’ve offended anyone’s linguistic preferences or favorite dialects depending on whether you live east or west of the Mississippi, or south of the Mason-Dixon line, or north of the demilitarized zone, then I suggest you get over it.  Truth is we all talk funny. Half of us don’t make any sense, and the other half think we do.  So, there you have it.  And, that’s I all have until next time.  Thanks for reading.

Remember. Make Every Hour Your Happy Hour.



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9 responses to “Why is it?

  1. Chris Devlin

    Wow, ZJ, it’s like Joyce’s Ulysses only I can kind of understand what you’re saying. Good job. 😉

    • Thank you Chris, I shall take this as a high compliment that you (1) understood what I was sayin’ (know, what I’m sayin;?) and (2) that you would even remotely associate me with Joyce. Or is it because we both have “James” in our names? Seriously, I thank you very much for taking the time to read and comment.

      • Chris Devlin

        Hah! I could see a mash-up of authors who have “James” in their names–Joyce, you, Henry James, James Patterson, James Franco… It would be hot.

      • Jim Czupor

        Okay. Now you’re making me light headed. Wanna be my agent?

  2. Erik

    Werd de hell jewed come up wid dis sheet

  3. Chris Devlin

    I would like to be your agent! And my own, too, while I’m at it. That might solve some problems…

  4. Topeka RRRRssss

    What you REALLY need are three cats… They ARE smart.
    Beautiful job. Loved it. (Want to hear M say that in person).
    We reallyare the ones for your best agent and greatest fans.

    • Thanks Carolyn, you are too kind. Really appreciate your reading and taking time to comment. Just imagine if we added three cats to our menagerie — I’d never get any sleep!

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