On a Pogo-Stick

WHAT the hell do I think I’m doing?

Yeah, people may simper up to me later with their heads hanging and mumble, “We should have listened to you, Donna.  You were right.  We got hurt.”

But is it worth it to ME?  I mean, if they’re heading right for the cliff that I’ve been off myself, and without the hang-glider harness, who am I to wave my arms and yell, “No, you fool, it’s going to HURT!!”

Half the time they’re so gleefully unaware on their course, heading right for the crash — man, these people are heading for the edge on a pogo stick, and I’m supposed to stop them?

Why?  What’s it get me?  Mostly it gets people crying and snarling and calling me names.  Do I get paid?  Do I get art supplies?  Does anyone offer me free advertising?

No, I’ve finally learned MY lesson.  If I see you clowns streaking happily for the great jump to break your face, wrists, backbone and/or ankles, I’m going to just go get a lawn-chair and popcorn.  Hell, watching the ambulance show up and the clean-up crew and funeral afterwards is half the entertainment.

And that includes you clowns who think you’re running governments.


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