I was taking a walk around town yesterday, as I am likely to do, like....everyday.
I am just feeling mad insane on account of having absolutely NO obligations.
So I am people watching...one of my fave hobbies.
And I see some of the usual townies...
the stereotypical Norman Rockwell'esque misfits that make our 'burb unique.
There is the dude who looks like skinny Santa in short shorts who carries a cane despite being completely mobile as evidenced by the fact he rides his bike everywhere and slings his walking stick over his shoulder for, show?
There's the kinda' scary, kinda' hot (in a grizzly adams kinda' way) lovable neighborhood schizophrenic pacing about.
Then there's fucking hippie dude walking around with ribbon sticks.
What is it with hippies and their props?
They always seem to have a hackey-sack, a bouncey ball, a frisbee...
Is there a connection between crunchiness and O.C.D.?
Must you always carry a prop?
So, my Debs came in for the night...
Love you Debbie and yo moms!
Big thanks for the brunch, Mrs. Allen.
And you guys sooooo need to try hushpuppies.
Life-changing experience for the palate, I swear!
And we get to talking about recent events...i.e. how all I do all day is walk around town like a certifiable nut.
I'm thinking, "I'm okay. I don't have a prop. What all these weirdos have in common is a thing, a gimmick...a schtick...if you will'".
Father Time has his tiny man pants.
Schizo dude has his facial hair and noticeable tic.
Mr. Phish (p.s. the Jesus look is not at all hot) has his girlie ribbons.
I'm safe, right?
Then I realize....oh, Shit!
I was walking down the street the other day when I tread past a golf ball.
It was unassuming... nestled in a patch of wet grass.
I am thinking... I can't bother.
Must. Move. Past. The. Ball.
Ten minutes later the thought of it is weighing down on my psyche like the North Korean Crisis.
I had to go back.
I have been carrying this golf ball around with me like it's a medic-alert bracelet.
Oh god.
I have a prop.
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