Flimsy Whimsy: “Sore”
Science fiction writers and theoretical physicists explore anti-gravity and anti-matter whilst I just explore anti-humor â€“ poor exploring at that. I would like to formulate another theory: that of anti-sore. It would be a discovery that would benefit mankind to a greater degree than either of the two or three previously mentioned hypotheses. Akin to Tinkerbelleâ€™s pixie dust, anti-sore particles would replace bandages, dozens of creams, and those ridiculously addictive strong painkiller medicines greedy pharmaceutical multinationals hook us on. All this and more would be banished into the growing vials of history stuck on the shelves of the akashic library, only to be drawn out again in some future yuga, once the enlightened knowledge of anti-sore fades again, like a waxless candle.
Imagine the uses. Mothers would reach into their magic cupboard, and sprinkle it on childrenâ€™s cuts and bruises, ending that obstreperous incessant hollering. Whining husbands lying in beds with sore backs would simple have her sprinkle some more â€“ in all the right places. Childbirth would be such a glorious event. Mothers would recall the glory of the birth, not the intensity of the torture. Carmakers could line the edges of frames with it, so there would be no cursing upon the inadvertent slam of the car door on unsuspecting kid or hubbyâ€™s pinky fingers.
But the potionâ€™s absolute specialty would be it ability to do its magic on emotions. No more sore feelings about badly timed words, miscommunications, jealousy, or overly sarcastic wit injections. All those long held unwholesome grudges would simply vanish. When dreaded bills arrive, one rejoices!
When the favorite team loses, itâ€™s just hunky-dory nobody cares time. When Pretty Woman at the club goes home with buddy Matt, itâ€™s yahoo for Matt. Sulk disappears from the dictionary, along with his pals Mope and Brood. Now that would make history.