A Normal Man

 

A Normal Man

He was a normal man.  He awoke at exactly 7:30AM, showered and shaved, ate a healthy breakfast with his family, and arrived at work at 9:00AM on every weekday. But when a traffic jam threw him off, he pounded his fist on the dash until the clock broke.

             He was an excellent employee who got along with co-workers, finished projects on time, received regular promotions and raises, and left for home at exactly 5:00PM. But on the way home he always stopped at a bar to have precisely two drinks and bitch about life from 5:30 to 6:00PM.

            He was a good husband and father.  He helped his wife with dinner and the kids with homework, then always drank one glass of wine and watched thirty minutes of news before retiring at 10:00PM.  But at night he dreamed of the life he had planned and how it hadn’t turned out that way. 

            He was a normal man like every other, so when no one was watching, he banged on the bars in the cage of his life.

           

Trophy Hunter

 Trophy Hunter

There I was on the Kenyan Savannah, a .375 Ruger in my hands and a black rhino in my sights.  One trigger pull and I’d have a trophy larger than my jeep.  But wait, I thought, aren’t black rhinos endangered?  Wouldn’t it be wrong to kill such a magnificent beast?  Where could I hang its head?  It wouldn’t fit over our mantel, and it would clash with our modern furnishings.  Plus, my daughter would never speak to me again.  She didn’t speak to me for a week after I ran over a squirrel.  I lowered my rifle.  No black rhino for me today.

I set my sights on a cheetah, the fastest land animal.  So fast, such a difficult target, that an amateur trophy hunter like me would never be able to hit it, not with a hundred bullets.  But this cheetah was deep asleep after devouring a gazelle.  Easy pickings.  I put my crosshairs between her eyes, but hesitated.  My daughter loves cats.  I could never display a cheetah at home, or put its photo on the wall, or ever speak of it to anyone but another hunter.  But I know no other hunters. What’s the use of killing a cheetah and keeping it secret?  I lowered my rifle and looked around for an animal I could kill in good conscience.

A hyena came into sight.  People hate hyenas.  They’re despised in the Lion King.  Maybe my daughter would be proud of me if I said I killed it to save the Jungle Boy.  But once again I couldn’t squeeze off a round.  The hyena looked like my first dog, Scout. Scout was my best friend, my only friend, for all his short life.  I lowered my sights from the hyena, frozen by childhood memories, unable to pull the trigger.  Maybe I would never find an animal I could kill in good conscience.

My safari guide, tired of waiting, jumped out of the jeep and yelled in my ear “Shoot, damn it, shoot.  Shoot anything that moves!”  At long last I’d found an animal that I could shoot in good conscience.

Prostitute

 Prostitute

A skimpily-dressed young woman, standing on a street corner, stuck her head and cleavage in my car window and asked,
    “You looking for a girlfriend?”
    I said, “I’m looking for a wife.”
    “I don’t do that,” she said.
    I drove around the block until I saw two more women, early twenties, long legs. They approached my car, leaned in, and asked, “Hey mister, you want twins tonight?”
    I said, “You don’t look like twins.”
    They said, “Then how about a sandwich? A three-way?”
    I said, “I’m looking for a wife.”
    The prostitutes said, “Forget it. Too kinky.” They turned their backs and walked away. I drove down the street and found a tired-looking, older woman sitting on the curb, chain-smoking.
    She said, “What do you want?”
    I said, “I’m looking for my wife.”
    She said, “What took you so long?”
    I said, “Get in, honey. Let’s get you home. You need a shower.”