Thursday, March 31, 2005


His innermost thoughts shuffled across the floor of consciousness in the voice of Groucho Marx. It had happened well over a dozen times over the course of his life: at his aunt's funeral, in a paralyzed elevator, at the end of an extremely long line-up for a bank machine that ended up not even working, on his back looking up at the stars, etc. Whenever his thinking took a dip into the profound, the tone of his inner voice took on the bouncety-bounce of Groucho Marx's trade mark intonation. "I guess it all just goes on forever," would have come across in a jokey way if his brain had been miked for an audience. He wasn't a fan of the Marx Brothers or even comedy films really and was quite oblivious to the humour of the situation.

One day he went out to the store to buy a can of tuna and a newspaper.

On his way back, leafing through the arts section of the paper he found himself reading an article of no consequence about a Hollywood actor.

"I just wasted one minute of my life," he thought to himself but instead of laughing at the absurdity of it all he started to cry.


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