A black rhinoceros sits on my chest. Flitting his tail back and forth across my face, he asks: "Why worry about the very thing over which you have no control?" I have no answer.
The rhino presses his leathery haunches into my guy, his boney rump compresses my solar plexus. He is indifferent. A cool 3,000 pound cucumber. He has time to chill his hooves, sitting as he is, comfortably on my chest.
"I can't take it anymore!" I plead.
"What?" he asks, turning to face me, and then closes his beady, black eyes. His horn tips to the right in contemplation or perhaps a fit of narcolepsy. I can't tell which.
After a moment or two he sighs into my face--hot, moist, and grassy: "You've carried such a heavy load this past year," he sputters. "I'm light potatoes."
And I know that bastard, thick-horned, odd-toed ungulate is right.
Rhino, thy name is Worry.
** Scans are in 13 days. Scanxiety reaches TSA Yellow Zone, with an additional small boat advisory. That is all.
No comments:
Post a Comment