First, THE IDEA didn’t know how it got there. It had somehow entered between his toes of choice, made its way up the leg—stopping briefly at the knee for a scratch, before climbing, masterfully, brazenly to an empty baby-cradle (oh, it’s his brain)—where it was born.
And then the world wanted him to share the idea—he, who had barely ever opened his mouth for porridge!
“What was your idea?” barked even the dog.
“I didn’t have the idea,” said he. “IT had me.”
The world had him repeat it. But not too fast. It was a marvel that he—who’d been called “brick-shit-house” all of his life—actually even HAD an idea. “Fancy that,” they all said, “just like . . .” No, they couldn’t think of another idea-getter smart enough to say, “How’s your mother?”
Well, the listening world went as silent as Trump’s plugged-up mind in exile, as they continued watching the one member of the family with a grown-up tongue pack half-a-dozen liver pate sandwiches and a bottle of St. Emilion ’67—which appeared as though it were summoned—and take himself on a much-deserved sabbatical.
And the tailgate banner on his leased out BMW said it all: “If I ask for directions, don’t tell me!”
GORDON PINSENT 