[Today’s post is one of those “just for fun” ones. Enjoy]
Bob walked to his chair, sweating slightly. He feared sitting down. The chair beckoned him with its polyester filling and vinyl covering, saying “sit here and get this novel finished.” But Bob knew that there was no use. He was afraid of sitting. The last time he had sat down and tried to work on his story, he fell asleep, and woke up in the floor with the chair on top of him. He had shattered four fingers, popped his shoulder out of joint, and got a nasty rug burn on his face. All because of that chair. True, it hadn’t done anything to him before, but it obviously was just biding its time.
Why didn’t he get rid of the chair and find a new one? Because he knew that chair had a life of its own. It would roll slowly back from the garbage dump, the neighbor’s house, or even reconstitute itself from the fire-pit and come to track him down and knock him in the floor again.
Bob decided he was overreacting. Maybe it wasn’t really the chair’s fault. Bob decided to give the chair one final chance. The book needed to be finished. He sat down and began to type. His fingers were a blur as he tried to get the book finished before the chair attacked again. The nervousness caused Bob to perspire greatly and large beads of sweat rolled down his arms and fingers and into the keyboard. With only a single chapter left to go, the keyboard shorted out. In a bout of frustration, Bob pushed back from the desk and screamed—as the chair toppled over backwards.
“You’ve won again, chair.”