Okay, you’re going to think I’m weird.
I know, I know — your opinion of me couldn’t get any lower. I’ve already sunk to the deepest depths of bizarreness, scraping the very bottom of the bizarro barrel, right?
I went to my first day of work at my new job today. We had a meeting at nine am (which I was on time for, a small miracle in and of itself). At said meeting were my two new co-bosses and various lab personnel. Just another day in the workplace. I paid close attention to the first twenty minutes of the meeting.
Then I turned to my right to look at one of my new bosses, who was explaining something Very Important™, and Very Complicated Indeed™. And I noticed that he has a mole on his left cheek — the one facing me as he spoke. Now, it’s not a big scary old-person mole. It’s not hairy, or swollen, or warty. It’s not ginormous, or anything; this is not a Gorbachev type of mole. It’s just a mole. A birthmark. An overgrown freckle.
The thing is, I’ve got the very same sort of mole, only mine’s on my right cheek. In other words, the one facing him as he spoke. Again, not hairy, or huge, or Gorby-gross — just a plain old garden-variety mole. But it got me to thinking. And after just a bit of thinking, I came to the only logical, obvious conclusion:
Clearly, he and I are a superhero crime-fighting duo. We’re like the Wonder Twins, only our special shape-shifting abilities are activated when we ‘meld moles’. We’re the Fabulous Mole Duo, or maybe the Freckle Friends, or even the Benign Birthmark Battle Boys. We’ve got secret hideouts, and costumes, and stuff. Really secret — so secret that I don’t even know about it, apparently. Now that’s keeping a low profile!
And we get into lots of fights and scrapes. And just like all the other superheroes out there, we lose — pretty miserably — for the first three-quarters of the melee. But then — just as things look bleakest — we brush cheeks and call on our Mole Morphing Power to save the day. I assume the form of a cactus, or a bowling ball, or a slice of American cheese. Meanwhile, he turns into a down comforter, or a katydid, or maybe a charm bracelet. Whatever it takes to repel the force of evil.
So, anyway, I zoned out for pretty much the rest of the meeting. Sure, I was there in the room physically. But in my mind, I was battling crime, fighting off the Whiner, and Dastardly Duck Sauce Man, and the Homeless Boozer. With my crimefighting partner, of course. Can’t do it alone, you know.
Of course, I have no real way of knowing whether all this is true, or just some sleep-deprived fantasy I’ve concocted. No way of knowing yet, that is. See, there’s only one way to know for sure, and I’m working on it as we speak. It’ll take a little planning, and some subterfuge, and perhaps some drinking — yes, quite a bit of drinking — but eventually I’ll come up with a scheme. Some excuse or ruse to brush against the man, cheek-to-cheek for just a moment. And as our freckle-spots glide against each other, I’ll call out,
‘I assume the form of a French ballerina!‘
Either I’ll immediately morph into a tutued nymph, or I won’t. Either way, I’ll know for sure about the superhero thing, and that’s what’s important.
(And either way, I’ll probably have just a bit of explaining to do. Erk.)
So that’s my story. Not so weird once it’s all explained, right? Um, right? Fine, be that way. Poopyhead.
I didn’t want to talk to you anyway. But I’ll tell you this, mister smarty-farty-pants — when the Homeless Boozer shows up at your door, pissing on your carpet and drinking you out of house and home, don’t come crying to me, all right? Me and my magic mole are gonna be busy that day. So nyah!Permalink | No Comments