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I have a dream! I have a dream that someday I will live on a tropical island as a beachcomber. I dream I will be wearing a fashionable loincloth and bone necklace and little else.
I know that right now, it doesn't look like I am making much headway on achieving the dream but I have not given up. I mean, just because I spend one third of my life in a cubicle; one third in staff meetings and one third sticking pins in the voodoo doll of my boss, doesn't mean I don't have time to dream.
The inside of my cubicle has photos of various island paradises that are plastered in between my OSHA required "DANGER! Methane Area!" signs.
I can envision my tropical hideaway every time I close my eyes in a staff meeting. I drift away to my future home every time the drone of my Boss's buzzwords causes me to lose consciousness.
There I am. The warm tropical sun is smiling down on my little grass hut. The gentle sea breeze wafts fruit fragrances from the oasis just up the beach.
I, in my loincloth, stretch lazily as I ponder whether to go back into my hut and sleep until twilight. All is right with my world. I am serene. I am in my own personal nirvana. Utopia has nothing on me.
From somewhere just under what I see and hear on my beautiful beach, I am disturbed. Some one is repeatedly saying my name over and over and over...
"Cockman! You Dipwad! Do you have the figures on the Fluggleman Account? Or are you just going to day dream while the rest of us work?"
"Sounds like a plan to me, Boss." I reply.
"Cockman! You numbskull! Why I keep you around here and pay you good money is beyond me."
I phase back into my daydream.
But something is amiss. The flavor is somehow different.
The sun is beating down on me and baking my skin red. The tropical breeze freshens to a stiff gale and the waves are washing my hut out to sea. I've had to climb a palm to hang on for dear life and the coconuts keeping dropping on my head.
The palm tree begins to bend so that I look like a rug on a clothesline being beaten by a hot-tempered housewife.
I retreat to a cave and find it inhabited by wild tribesmen who look very hungry.
From somewhere else, I hear the grunt of someone speaking, "We might as well end the meeting…Cockman is obviously somewhere else."
That may be the first thing the boss has ever gotten right.
The hurricane winds die down. The cannibals look at me in my fashionable clothing and bone necklace and realize they have encountered a man among cannibals.
They immediately bow low and proclaim me The Mighty Tiki Boom Boom god.
After much worship, I am carried on their shoulders to my newly rebuilt hut, where ten tropical virgins await my merest whim.
I step into my thatched palace and take one of the girls in my arms…
"Mister Cockman! What ARE you doing?" wails Mrs. Finklesteen. "Aren't you going to punch out on the time clock? Put me DOWN! You PERVERT!"
Ahhhhhh. I think it will not be too much longer before I will HAVE to get me another cannibal chick!
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For more island humor, please visit author Carson Cockman's Blog Site.
© Copyright 2007 by Carson Cockman
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