It is often said, “You can’t worry about things you have no control over.”

And that’s always bothered me. No control? I not only want my world controllable, I want it perfected. Forget politics. Let’s start a grass roots movement to promote controllability. Not just for my world, but for every….nah, just for my world. Everyone else’s world will work out just fine if mine is perfected. I mean you can’t just press the pads of your fingertips together and say, “Look everybody, I’m exuding confidence.”

The truth is; worrying has its place. It keeps us vigilant and aware of avoidable pitfalls. Like anything else though worrying can be carried too far. Then again, the distance you carry it away must be at least far enough to prevent the thing from happening you’re worried about occurring in the first place.        Me like writing.

 

Reasonable Justification for Irrational Panic

If a catastrophe befell me it wouldn’t make any sense. If one befell you I’d understand. Catastrophes can happen to civilians. But me? I’ve got plans. Big plans. I’ve got a Presidential Library to build. Just as soon as I’m elected to the highest office in the land. Which, I recently discovered, is located on the 108^th floor of the Sear’s Tower Building in Chicago. It’s truly the highest office in the land. But I’ll never get elected to either office now, especially since the gerbil incident. How was I to know you had to hold onto their tails? And now I’m filled with anxiety and foaming at the mouth.

And because my destiny is not yet fulfilled, I rest easily knowing God would never take me unto his bosom until I pleasured him with our desired legacy. Of course things do change. What if I suffered a terrible disability causing me to begin every sentence with, “Having said that…”? Oh God no. Please not that. So much is riding on my perfectibility or at least my relative success and the possibility of failure fills me with anxiety causing me to foam at ears.

Having said that, what if my pecker stops working or I develop homosexual urges I can’t control. Of course if my pecker stopped working I wouldn’t have to worry about the homosexual urges. I guess that’s what they mean when they say, “When one door closes another opens.” OK. That’s actually a little soothing in a perverted way. But now I’m uncomfortable again. Does that mean I’m perverted? Once again I’m mired in self-doubt and filled with anxiety. You don’t even want to know where I’m foaming from now.

Just yesterday my last fast twitch muscle died, dooming me to a life of slow motion activity. I must forever pay strict attention to the countdown timer on the WALK/DONT WALK lights. And in a parallel event; today my last agonizing analogy died, dooming me to a life of authenticity. Now I’m filled with real anxiety because I have to be my real self.

An Attempt at Progress

As an adolescent I dealt with raging hormones that wouldn’t be denied till my hand was almost crippled. As a post-adolescent (I’ll never consider myself a full-fledged adult – not the way my closet looks) I now deal with raging awareness. My mind knows too much and my eternally assertive ego confuses knowledge for wisdom. I’ve got big problems the size of several inner children. For example (and I’d rather not go into how I acquired this knowledge) I’m the only one on my block whose headboard is equipped with air bags and that’s why I always buckle up before relations.

Basis of My Fear

It’s all here to hurt me, not to instruct me. I could suffer a compound arm fracture while lifting the contents of my supersized ego. Or I might be physically traumatized by mobs of angry readers as they express to me the pain my writing causes them. It could get worse. Again, without going into details, I’ll mention that I once had a Yorkshire Terrier vomit directly into the back of my throat. I think it was Cervantes who said, “You’ve never truly experienced life until you’ve felt hot chunky dog vomit ricochet off your soft palate.” Boy did that scrape off the barnacles and provide focus. If that can happen to me, what else could happen? So you can see why I’m filled with custard and topped with chocolate. David Éclair am I.

Remedies

I wouldn’t mind being cut painlessly in two in a railroad accident, just to see how the other half lives. What’s it like over there. I’d of course demand return rights and now I’m filled with anxiety and choc-a-bloc with mental tumult. Growing up wasn’t easy either. My father used to punish us by making us sleep in “The Bed of Crumbs.” Nothing will straighten you out faster than waking up looking like breaded veal and hearing the crackle of oil in the frying pan.

And now random thoughts are foaming out of my every pore:

1. Geriatric scientists estimate that for every hour you spend trying to figure out how much time you lose from your life when you do something unproductive, you lose an hour from your life.

2. In 1974 Mrs. Barricella gave her visiting nephew Nicky $5, earning the hostility of her other nephew Sammy who lived across the street. While Sam groused about it to the assembled crew (Me, Stewy, Fish, Box and Nicky), Aunt Mary, who by now had gone back into the house, realized her error and returned to tender Sammy $5 thereby making everyone whole.

3. I could listen to somebody dribble a basketball for hours. Couldn’t you?

4. Whereas ‘Elite Tile’ is a palindrome. Sarah Palin is a Palin drone. She sounds the same forwards and backwards.

5. The favorite parlor game in Toronto is 6 Degrees of Canadian Bacon.

6. I couldn’t tell if he was the real opera star or not. His name was Placebo Domingo.

7. Q. How did the song Afternoon Delight ever become a hit? A. Its’ competition was Germy Taxidermy.

8. Things weren’t any different before recorded history either.

9. I’m riven with panic because my carefully constructed world falling apart (is).

10. No. The complete opposite is happening now and I’m securely clothed in well-being as my soul becomes ascendant. You too?

 

Can You Make Soft Drinks Using Hard Water?

Who cares? The point of all this is to bypass the distraction, detritus and false positives of the righteous life thereby penetrating to the crux of the matter. Upon arriving there, stand firm, look directly upon the face of the crux and say, “Phooey.” Not spitefully or rancorously, but good, sincere phooey. The kind of phooey that honors both the Phooer and the Phooee. I can’t say it any more clearly than that. And that’s always bothered me.

However, be it known I’ve got a remedy. I regularly practice the white man’s over bite while playing the meanest air guitar this side of my bathroom mirror. And to those who say I should do more, I offer my immaculate one word response; “Phooey!”