“Wilford Brimley on Behalf of Being Wilford Brimley”
by Joe Bartenhagen
Hello, I’m Wilford Brimley and I don’t know a dang thing. Hell. You could put a bowl of soup in front of me and I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Eat it? That’s just a guess.
Point is: I got nothing in my head. It’s like sawdust up there. And some bees. Or maybe something that’s not as interesting as bees. Like just a sick mouse. It’s just sort of struggling and a couple of its legs don’t work. It makes sounds but I can’t even imagine what sounds those would be. I play music sometimes just so the mouse will hear and maybe cheer up a little, and I think to myself, “Cheer up, sick mouse in my head,” and the next thing I know, I’m behind the wheel of a car, plowing through people like they’re just stalks of corn filled with, evidently, a lot of blood and then I remember being on a farm one time and, hell, it’s almost like I’m not even in a car on an oceanfront boardwalk running over people by the dozens.
They’ll probably lock me up pretty soon or send me to China or throw me over the side of a boat. But as long as I can breathe some air that should rightfully go to other, younger, more productive people, I’m just going to keep on doing it, thank you very much. Get your own air.
