It was jotted in my own manic scrawl, in pencil, on the corner of a scrap of paper and left on my desk. It sat there with gravity, weight. It Meant Something.
And it stayed there on my desktop for several weeks, patient and waiting, because it, yes, Still Undoubtedly Meant Something.
It was an Idea. A Spark to be fanned into a blazingly hilarious blog post, destined to make laughter pierce the air!... turn readers' days instantly better!... with readers' families and coworkers catching the mirth through happy bloggy osmosis!...
Yes, there would be dogs smiling... babies giggling... and inevitably it would bring peace to people across the world except probably not Egypt because let's be realistic: a crappy note on a piece of paper can only do so much.
And that note, that note intended for boundless humor read:
"The Cellars Progressive Wine Sale"
...
...
Yeah: I know. I have no idea where I was planning to go with that either. And it is so. not. funny.
The babies, they weep. The dogs, they smile not.
Egypt is still Egypt.
I might-- and I can only guess here-- have been thinking of questioning whether Progressive Wine was branded politically, or whether it was a simple suggestion that one should drink many sequential bottles at once in increasing alcoholic content percentages.
One would think, from my lack of memory, that I had tested that out.
But somehow the whole joke of Progressive Wine Differing from Libertarian and Conservative wine in, say, belief in how much involvement the winemaker should have in the fermentation process...
Well, it doesn't really live up to the whole "wishing I could buy the world a Coke/glass of Progressive Wine/beverage of choice and live in perfect har-mo-neee" thang.
And then there's that "carpool" note over there. Clearly that was written at another time, since it's in ink. But I don't carpool. I can't recall having an event to go to that required a carpool.
Or maybe the paper is just one grand statement on designated driving.
Yes, your guess is as good as mine, folks. All I can say is, thank goodness I'm not Guy Pearce's character from Memento.
There'd be no telling what I'd find tattooed on myself.
Question for the day: Do you ever write yourself notes and then get amnesia?
And by the way-- who are you people?
