by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|I'm talking to you. I can never make up my mind. It is so bad that I’ve been late for my own funeral several times. The last time that happened left everyone speechless. Sorry. Did that nudge of my elbow in your belly release that explosion of flatulence?
I’d light a match but we’d both light up the sky like human shooting stars. Boy, howdy, smelling that brings tears to the eye, don’t it? Letting ‘er rip like that musta’ tore your hind end past the sound barrier. Agony on your face reminds me when I was asked to judge this year’s Grand Chilli Cook Off.
Contenders are still trying to hunt me down. Mostly I recognize the heated up look of their eyes, lava red steam rolling off their tongues and the scent of beans mixed with Hot Hobenero Peppers steaming out of their ears.
That time bomb lays ticking in the sauce laced with all kinds of innocent curiosity to shriveled up taste buds, making them resurrect themselves. Just enough time to win me my award and judges get this distant look. Trembling hands reach for the feeling of a strange fomenting and bubbling volcano ready to erupt deep inside.
Take your own appearance for example. Probably done in more than a few contenders of homemade backyard BBQ grills with your secret recipe mix. Road kill free for the finding protein turned more than one stomach into the worst case of diarrhea turned anyone inside out, be my guess.
No. Don’t say a word. I know my chilli. When I see its side effects standing beside me, it is like reading the pages of a cookbook. You are the true article and you come to do me wrong, if I ain’t misspoken, you come to make me eat my last meal, and take back my fructified remains as proof before collecting the bounty.
Sorry. Steady on. I’m a little nervous. I’m jest’ an old fart. Can’t disturb the air like I used too. Plug your nose. I’m not the stinker you think once you get to know me. Bet you plan on wringing my own secret mix of fire and brimstone out of me before you done me in, right?
I let my chilli do my talking for me. Why any contest I enter, I win. No survivors Only their sorry kin come hunting me down. Yeah-who, that was a fog horn blast of a warning, bringing others near and far. Figured you’d need reinforcements to bring me to my doom. I do admire the way you dropped pigeons and crows from the sky. Come close to being close to the kind of dragon breath a chilli burp were meant to be.
Glad I turned a little and held my breath in anticipation or I wouldn’t be wearing hair. Would a’ wiped curled up and torn my fingernails right off. Trying to torture me into giving up my chilli ingredients before the others arrive. Good try.
Why I’m doing all this chatter is sizing up if you are worth leaving what I cooked up as a legacy attached to my name. I can’t live forever, though the chilli I make up may make you think so, embalming my innards the way it does. There is a fine line between how you swallow what you hear and how gasp your last breath of bean brew.
I jest’ can’t decide and it is time I best be on my way, floating on a cloud of my own creation, if you will. Remember this as you lay rolling on the ground. The good book says ‘Judge not that ye be not judged. Blessed are the meek for they shalt inherit the good earth.’
If you don’t inherit a plot six feet under whilst digging and clawing to get away from my evil scented mist, you are welcome to follow and give it another try.
So long soldier, might try adding another hand full of black pepper to your profounder next chill contest you are in. Don’t thank me. It ought to kill off more of my competition. Be my guest.
Left another one speechless. Just an old fart what ain’t lost my touch. Nice of him to stop and visit while trying to figure out why his trigger finger melted against where he was pointing his gun. Don’t make them like they used to. I’d best be off. I smell a chilli contest wafting in the breeze. That dead skunk yonder is a sure sign. I got a hunger for tasting some good chilli. Maybe make up a pot myself if it don’t melt first. Hard to find good competition.