A Kick to My Back Side

Turns out the Joke is on Me

Yesterday I posted a frivolous scribble. Nothing much was on my mind, yet I needed to publish something in order to make check a box on the “to do” list. This morning, I woke up with an AHA. That sardonic, sarcastic, and cynical stance lurking in the background stands in the way of the enthusiasm, and exuberance with which I desire to live out my elderhood or stage three of this particular go-around on planet Earth.

Could the joke be on me? Was I posting a message to myself?

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know. . .

That was said about George Gordon, Lord Byron. He was beautiful, romantic, and had some good moments as a poet. Rumor said that to keep his figure svelt, he dined primarily on boiled potatoes doused with vinegar.

My friends do not think of me as “mad, bad, and dangerous.” I present a phlegmatic face to the world: often to the point of coma. They do not suspect a snarky iconoclast lurks behind the cellar door of my subconscious.

On a Facebook page belonging to a serious and well-meaning person, I posted a snarky and sarcastic comment aimed to puncture the balloon she was flying.

This adversarial personality knocks on the door daily; I rarely indulge its sardonic comments. But I would like to: I would like to sow a hundred sarcastic and mean-spirited comments every day.

Sadly, I am mad, bad, and dangerous to know in sheeps clothing.