Pleasure pains

Have you noticed them struggling down the streets lately? Bent, stiff, and in obvious pain.
Down in Drizzle Creek, it appears to have become epidemic.
There even has become a lineup at the door of the Bakery. Most individuals simply don’t have enough strength to pull it open and must wait for a departing individual to fall, or at least lean against the door, to spring it open.
The door, when it does finally swing open, presents a whole new set of challenges arise.
The exiting personage has to avoid tumbling down the steps while the entering personage, unable to spring back, must grasp feebly at the handle and, cursing stepped-on toes, ease themselves through the opening before the closing door severs an appendage.
A petition is in the works to have the cook install handicap-access doors. The main problem with that is no one has the nerve to present it to her (sort of like the mice deciding who will “bell” the cat).
This is a very recent phenomenon. In fact, just days ago, these self same parties were spryly hurrying up and down the streets, squirreling their purchases away in their pockets and purses lest some neighbour learn their secret.
It’s definitely not the swine ’flu, although the distress seems to have affected most of the community.
There was speculation that Madison Avenue’s recent saturation campaign promoting the little blue pill was the culprit. After all, there were quite a few couples strolling together and the recent consignment auction did reveal quite a few closet antiquers.
As for sports, it’s the playoffs and not a TV set in town has had a chance to cool off.
Some of the senior set was giggling a week ago, but one anonymous lady recently stated most forcefully that she would shoot her hubby if he came home with a box of the blue devils.
No, it’s simpler than all that. It’s planting time.
Len was nearly in cardiac arrest after yanking on the starter cord of the old tiller for a half-hour. He finished off his back dragging the brute to the lane for its annual trip down to Ike’s for a tune-up.
Ike himself is refusing to leave the house—still too cold. Pickle, the alternative tinkerer, has gone into hiding.
So we all continue to suffer. Blisters are raised, backs are stretched, and shiny bulging packets of seed, onion sets, and well-sprouted spuds await the warm and an application of liniment to the seized muscles.
And an added word of caution. In your current state of over-stressed exertion, a dose of the little blue pill could well set off a Charlie horse or a back spasm, so frightening to your partner to may have to resort to separate bedrooms.
Then who would plant the
garden?

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