The wheatgrass man is in the driveway. Every week at this time, he delivers a fresh flat of wheat grass and picks up the flat from last week. The delivery guy puts the fresh grass on the steps outside the screened porch, and picks up the old flat. I take the fresh flat inside the screened porch and water it a couple of times a week. I make wheatgrass shots (almost) every day before I make coffee.
TCP: (From the room adjacent to the screened porch) Did you put out the grass?
UCC: (In a surly undertone from 2 rooms away, where despite my hearing aids, it’s not always clear what’s being said from such a distance) Don’t tell me last week’s flat of wheat grass didn’t put itself out?
TCP: Hey, What about (unintelligible/incoherent)?
UCC: (Getting up, going to the room where TCP is laying on the couch) Please repeat.
TCP: While you’re here, put the wheat grass out for the guy to pick up.
WISIMH: (Putting the grass out and taking the new grass in to water, while humming "My only prayer will be/ Someday you’ll care for me/ But it’s o-o-only ma-a-a-ke believe.") If there is a circle in hell where the habitually supine will reside, imbricated together like stacked lumber, their collective murmuring just soft enough that nobody else can understand them, mingling together into a low hum, like the sound the world makes rolling around the sun, that’s where you’ll end up spending eternity, bub.