Doesn’t it always seem that Tuesdays never fail to bring a certain sense of irony?
Tuesday is my favorite day of the week for this reason.
For example, last Tuesday was my wedding day, and it rained.
Two Tuesdays ago, I met the man of my dreams and then I met his beautiful wife.
I had ten-thousand spoons when all I needed was a knife.
So, I ripped that from Alanis, but really, Tuesdays are weird.
Anywho, I walked into my bedroom the other night, and perched on my favorite feather pillow was a Sugar Glider.
The Sugar Glider, or petaurus breviceps, is a tree-dwelling marsupial indigenous to Australia often mistaken for the common flying squirrel. So, you can understand my amazement at the sight of such a rare and enchanting beast, stationed at the head of my four-post bed.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” said the Sugar Glider.
Odd, I thought, but after all it is a Tuesday.
“My name is Brinken, and I am chief adviser to my Lord and Protector, King Kilmidge III of Brostengton, Emperor of Brivicepland.”
“What the f***,” I thought to myself, but only managed to say, “Pleased to meet you Brinken. My name is Jay, and I like doughnuts.”
Of all the things to say to the chief adviser of the squirrel Emperor of Brivicepland, I had to say I like doughnuts.
“Yes Mr. Jay, I know you like doughnuts.”
“How? Have you been following me?”
“No,” he replied gently, “I noticed the sugar flakes scattered about the bed, and then I noticed the Krispy Kreme boxes. I just put two and two together.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway Mr. Jay, I have been sent by my Emperor to summon you to the Great Halls of Glendorian in Brostengton to council him in this time of need.”
Again, the thought crossed my mind … “what the f***!?”
“Why,” I asked.
“Because the George W. Bush re-election campaign is not going as well as we would have hoped.”
“Oh, OK,” I said, “but what do you have to do with G.W.?”
“He is one of us.”
“Wait. My president is a flying squirrel?”
“It’s Sugar Glider, and yes…well, not really no. You see the George W. Bush you know is actually just an bio-mechanical vessel.”
Third time’s a charm — “what the F***!?”
You see, we have constructed a vehicle resembling the human form to control our worldly interest, such as Iraq. Inside your president skull is a tiny wheel-house under the command of my friend and confidant Col. Fungrid.”
“So, the Iraqi War was all the doing of Squirrels?”
“Yes,” Brinken said proudly.
“But why?” I asked “Are y’all in the oil business?”
“No way. We want their pistachios. Iraq has great pistachio nuts.”
“Oh, makes sense, but just out of curiosity, why does the president have such a hard time reading the prompter?”
“Ah, well you see Col. Fungrid has a medical condition that causes him to have chronic bad breath. It’s quite repulsive at times, and at any rate sometimes the heat from his breath fogs the port-hole eyes that enable him to see clearly.”
“Huh.”
“So, if there aren’t any more questions, we really should be on our way.”
“Wait,” I exclaimed, “why me? What can I possibly do to help?”
… To may or may not be continued.