Flimsy Whimsy: Gall

Folks with gall get admired by folks without it. It takes gall to boldly walk out of an almost-done deal for a new car with your brother-in-law, whose alter-ego is that salesman who desperately needs money for cigarettes, but not food.

Gall is necessary to inform your pompous fat Aunt Molly about that nasty half dried mucous thingy hanging from her nostril. Gall is the driving force behind the guy who takes liberty in arguing with a cop, which indicates that sometimes too much of it is not a lovely thing at all.

You need just the right amount, a highly unpredictable quantity, which has about as many determining variants as the final outcome of an English cricket season: fog, injuries, misplaced wickets, and illegal betting.

I often muse of going to my doctor for gall injections. Then I wouldn’t have bought that overpriced car, or avoided talking to my aunt altogether. I do like her after all. At least I’m glad I didn’t argue with the cop.

Perhaps gall pills would be a wiser option than what’s available now: versions of booze. There would have to be detailed instructions inside the package, with suggested dosages for various circumstances: Take one pill if you need to inform your wife she has halitosis. Take two pills if you want to lie to your girlfriend so you can go drinking with your buddies. Take three pills if you feel the need to wear your Flames jersey to an Oilers game. Take four pills if you want to tell your emotionally volatile boss, who outweighs you by a hundred pounds, he’s the absolutely most evil boss you’ve ever met.

And finally, take five pills if you want to face Yama, also known as the Reaper, face to face.