Breakfast, Launch and Supper

There is almost certainly a purpose and meaning to the universe, even if it is complex and beyond my ability to understand. I take solace in the fact that for one fleeting second right before I die, I might gain an infinitesimal spark of insight.

Until then, I'll keep doing what I do every morning. I'll go outside with a half-bushel of rotten fruit--apples, peaches, cantaloupes, etc.-- and spend an hour or so tuning my launch strategies on my medieval catapult. At first, a couple of the neighbors were a tad nervous, but I put their fears to rest by explaining that I couldn’t possibly hit anything that close.

After a week or so, a few would stop by when they heard the whoosh of the giant arm hurl the projectile of choice into a precise arc with destination unknown. On more than one occasion, Mr. Watson, my 80-year-old neighbor showed up petting and caressing a chihuahua or kitten, imploring me with his eyes to relieve his burden. To his credit, he didn't actually ask me to experiment with the little guys, but I did detect a note of disappointment in his demeanor as he departed. I finally had to discourage him from coming over when he showed up dragging Mrs. Watson. I explained to him that my catapult's tension spring could never handle a two-hundred-pound payload, and if he didn't want to spend the rest of his life in prison, he'd better take his wife back home, put her back in her wheelchair and get the hell off my property. Some people...

Well, the cops are here again. I'll have to explain to them that they can't prove that the projectile in question was launched on my machine. "You got any fingerprints on that watermelon, Officer Lynch?", I'll ask him as I stuff my gloves in my back pocket.

Well, I gotta go... I sure hope Lenny the Leper will pick up the phone before AAA Bailbonds opens at 8 a.m.