If I Could Save Time in a Bottle...

author's note: In response to Becca tagging me "IT," this one is about 3 pages, but a good bit of it is white space. Should be a pretty quick read. Next entry probably won't show up until next week and will bring you all back to the East Coast with me on my Karaoke Summer Tour.

So here were the questions of which I was supposed to answer five...

If I could be a musician, If I could be a doctor, If I could be a painter, If I could be a gardener, If I could be a missionary, If I could be a chef, If I could be an architect, If I could be a linguist, If I could be a psychologist, If I could be a librarian, If I could be an athlete, If I could be a lawyer, If I could be an inn-keeper, If I could be a professor, If I could be a writer, If I could be a llama-rider, If I could be a bonnie pirate, If I could be an astronaut, If I could be a world famous blogger, If I could be a justice on any one court in the world, If I could be married to any current famous political figure

Personally, besides a few of them, I thought they lacked creativity and didn't push me to really think. I've heard much better "situational questions for consideration."

Like Mr. Croce's for which I've titled this blog.

Or my good friend, Becca's. "If you could choose any superpower…"

And with my recent disposition, my own contribution… If you had to choose between farts that would make noise and those that stink, which would you choose? Think about the different situations… movie theaters, restaurants, blind dates, the in-laws.

But, since none of these questions was posed to me (or at least "tagged" to me), I’ll take a quick moment to hit a few of the aforementioned.

The first one is easy, but my girl will probably be the only one to get the humor. If I could be a bonnie pirate… I already am. To let you in on part of the joke, I’ve always been fond of any variety of facial hair. One particular fashion a few years back even got me a gruff “Aarrggh,” from a passing pedestrian late one Saturday night in Missoula, Montana.

If I could be a writer… Damn that would be nice, but my agent just isn’t convinced I’m ready, and I have to trust that she knows what she’s talking about.

If I could be a chef... well, that would mean that I would’ve also gained some notoriety as a writer, because one of my dreams is a huge kitchen… and the time to use it.

If I could choose to be married to any current famous political figure, I’d probably choose not to.

And finally, I would probably choose farts that stink, because you can always walk a few feet away to do it… or just blame the dog.

Okay, one last story before I go.

So a friend of mine was visiting a woman in New York whom he hadn’t seen in a few years. He always had a little thing for her, and when he got the invite to visit, he thought he might have an opportunity to get the ball rolling… so to speak.

Long story short. They’re having dinner at her place (we’ll call her “Janie”), when my friend (“Rich”) feels the uncomfortable rumbling in his lower gut. Must’ve been the Mexican for lunch. Here’s the best part. He would’ve just excused himself from the table to go to the bathroom to let one go (light a match, you know?), but her toilet was out-of-order until the Super could get in and fix it. Janie had told him earlier that the neighbor woman was always at home and would let them use hers, but Rich wasn’t about to go over to the neighbor’s just for that, and if he just went in the hall, well then Janie might…

Well, he was in the middle of thinking about his options when one just slipped out by accident without a sound, and while it may not have been deadly, it surely wasn’t pretty. Rich started to sweat as Janie crinkled her nose. “Jeez,” she said and waved her hand in front of her face. Now Janie’s dog (“Spot”) had been lying at their feet this whole time. She looked under the table and said, “Spot, get out of there!” Spot looked up for a moment, then dropped his head down and went back to sleep.

Rich relaxed, chuckling to himself that he had escaped the potentially romantically damaging situation.

Well, we all know that rarely do farts travel alone, and it wasn’t long before another one brewed up, but feeling confident that he was in the clear, he let it go. Again, Rich almost laughed aloud as Janie told Spot to leave the room, but she still didn't forcibly eject him, and Spot slept on.

With desert came the third occasion, and without a thought, Rich adjusted in his seat slightly and again without a sound, polluted the room. He actually laughed this time, waiting for Janie to blame it on the dog.

“Spot,” Janie said, “for the last time, get out from under the table before Rich kills you.”

Silly Dick and Jane.

(Insert two taps on the snare, followed by the cymble.)