I was recently unsettled by a particularly onerous task. In a frustrated fit of strop, I decided then and there that what I needed was a good dose of wisdom. Wisdom – and only wisdom – could tell me whether I should undertake said task or run away, screaming wildly. Wisdom – and only wisdom – could advise how best to complete said task or else how best to find a loathsome hidey hole deep enough to evade capture forever and ever.
So I flung the cupboards open and rattled the drawers in a great show of exasperation, for when one has succumbed to strop, one must exorcise the daemons with immediate action. Of course, no elixir of wisdom was to be found, and I decided to blame the cat, who happened to be minding his own business on the kitchen floor. Having stomped around and issued a brief and unsatisfying rant, I pointed my finger at the wary feline and, enraged at his impertinent refusal to scamper from the might of my wrath, aimed a kick at the blighter.
Now, of course, is the moment to assure the horrified reader that I am not a cruel man but a considerate and gentle one. I have no truck with violence spawned of anger, especially when directed toward animals, children, and disgusting cripples. Said kick, admittedly aimed in the cat’s direction, was not actually intended to launch a bundle of powdered bone and catmeat through the wall and into the street – merely to invoke within him the Fear of Me.
However, at that moment, my housemate descended the stairway, and, seeing me winding a rampant toe back to nape, assumed the worst.
All three of us had been undone by a poverty of wisdom!