Bill's Musings

 

It was a small, unkempt, crowded room. There were about twenty of us. The outdoor temperature was almost 30 degrees Celsius, and, of course, there was no air conditioning. Also, it appeared that underarm deodorant was not being used by several individuals, nor were toothbrushes.

After some formalities, we were prompted, one by one, to stand up and speak our peace. About a dozen speakers passed, and finally, it was my turn. ‘My name is Bill’, I said, ‘and I too am a person with rage issues!’ There. I said it. I had, or should say, have, issues with rage.

I become enraged at slow lines. I get angry when someone is buying 50 scratch tickets while my ice cream melts. I boil over when I get all the red lights in town (ALL OF THEM!! Geeze!!) And don’t get me started when I’m driving behind a Sunday driver….and it’s only Tuesday!!

Oh, I know it doesn’t seem like I was like this as a child, but believe me, underneath that lovely, creamy complexion and perfect eyebrows, I was a bubbling cauldron of puss-filled boiling rage. And after doing some investigation and soul searching (actually, I went to a psychic. We did a past-life regression thingy), I’m pretty sure I have found the source of all this anger and angst.

In a past life, it seems, I was a Viking. But I wasn’t any ordinary, run-of-the-mill Viking. No, I was an enraged, gnome-like Viking. On top of that, my mother had named me Diablo. Not Björn, like my tall, popular cousin (oh, how I longed to be called Björn!!). No, I was short, stumpy, and called Diablo Gunnvör, third in line for our family’s bakery, and perpetually teased about my name and stature.

I realize many of you at this point are looking at your spouse/roommate/significant other and wondering ‘Why am I reading this? Where’s the Reader’s Digest?’ Trust me. It only gets worse.

So, as I was saying, with a name like Diablo Gunnvör, there were many laughs at my expense. Of course, it didn’t help that, when translated, Diablo Gunnvör meant ‘stinky latrine washer’. Add in the fact that I was balding at 15, and was the only one of my clan that still couldn’t lift my battle axe (and mine was made for my small stature!), things certainly were not going my way.

I was suffering from ‘Small Viking Syndrome’, and my rage knew no bounds. Laugh at me? Rage. Poke me with a sharp stick? More rage. The cookies I baked were not tasty enough for you? Arrrrrrggghhhh!! Out of my way!!

Everything might have worked out, but, when all the men were preparing to leave for battle, I was told to stay behind with the women-folk and feed the chickens. After all the men left, I found myself baking more to pass the time. It was at this time that our village was attacked by a rival clan, and when I came out of the bakery with a tray of hot scones, everyone was gone, most of the buildings were burning, and my little ballet axe was broken in two. Well, I went into a rage fit for a Viking!! Unfortunately, my brain haemorrhaged at that moment, and I moved on into this life.

Or so I was told.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the psychic saw me coming on this one. There’s no way this happened. That just fills me with more rage! I would like to see this psychic again, and ask for my money back….all ten bucks! Ooooh, I’m so mad.

Sorry. All that fibre from last week has made me a little silly, which as we all know it totally unlike me.  I hope to have a more reasonable topic next week. Just don’t make me angry.