Solve the mysteries of life. It’s imperative. You were born, swaddled in life, a life was wedged deep into your little, flabby, baby body and you popped out alive. You are probably still alive.

Some guy, probably sporting a mohawk, or sports jacket, or cool watch, bumps into you, and you drop your drink, down it goes, shattering to the ground. Alcohol splashes on everyone’s shoes and now they’re all looking at you.

“Solve the mysteries of life,” comes a voice from inside of your soul. Ah, yes, your soul, the undefined little spark of the divine of consciousness that keeps this whole thing afloat, and by ‘this’ I mean ‘you’. It’s a little warning system, a little ringing bell in your psyche that arrives at moments like these when everything stops and shit just got real.

So you do. You calmly tell the crowd that Mr. Brick-elbows probably should have been watching where he was chucking those things, you might ask him if he has a license or a permit for such deadly weapons like where his little arm bone and big arm bone meet and bend and maybe he shouldn’t be lobbing them around the room like that.

“Yeah!” someone from the crowd shouts.

“You tell him!” comes another encouraging voice thirsty for the come-uppance.

“Listen, Elbows, you better get to packing your shit and leaving town right about now!” another voice chimes in.

Elbows was once a flabby baby, too, he can’t help his medical condition, you think.

“Ok, everyone,” you say, raising your hands into the air in a sign of peace and respect. “We shouldn’t discriminate against the less coordinated.”

“That’s right!” comes a new voice from the crowd. “My mother was not coordinated!”

“Mine was also not coordinated when I was a child, and it caused me problems when I became an adult!” another person says.

Shit is getting out of hand, let’s get the fuck out of here now before shit gets real deep and starts poppin’ off up in this. You, Elbows, the man who’s mother was not coordinated and had the courage to share this, and some guy named Wally who probably mopped the floors, quickly leave the building during all the confusion. You all step out into the street and start making your way into the hot, summer night, leaving the confusion far behind.

Later, Wally, who now sleeps on your couch occasionally, due to not having a ‘steady place to crash’, eats a sandwich of yours in the fridge and you get really pissed and finally kick his ass out.

The End