I thought I invented the ultimate profound question: would you rather be invisible, or be able to fly? About a month ago, I heard a radio broadcast of a special they did on that very thing; guess I didn’t invent the question after all.

More people chose to be invisible by something like ten to one, and when pressed, most of their motives were embarrassingly sinful. The whole thing is silly, I know, but telling at the same time. Perhaps it’s simply a semi-mystery, like Mixed Fruit Jelly. Have you ever seen Mixed Fruit Jelly anywhere but at those independent restaurants off the highway? Is Mixed Fruit Jelly the hot dog of jellies?

But I’m getting off track…not altogether unusual I know…so let’s move on. Believe it or not, we’ll tie this all together. Pretty sure, anyway.

Last time I took a trip into East Texas, I stopped at a gas station in a little town we'll call…oh, let’s call it Petticoat Junction. Just for fun.

The gas station in PJ is halfway to where I regularly visit and a convenient place to stop. They never acknowledge me as a regular - guess my accent still sounds Yankee enough that I don’t rank - but it’s one easy exit shy of halfway to where I go, so I stop there. It is a funny little town; one that would make a great setting for a slasher movie. I figure they trap tourists, take ‘em to a barn where they do unspeakable things with a Husqvarna 3120 XP magnesium crankcase, LowVib, Smart Start chainsaw.

On this last visit – and as soon as I walk in the gas station - I sense something is not right. Todd has this sour look on his face as does the State Trooper standing there.

I say howdy, and that I just need to use the restroom. Todd nods me over to it; I go in and lock the door behind me.

This restroom at Petticoat Junction Gas and Groceries is the smallest restroom ever. Keep that in mind, it’s important to the story. It’s chilly outside but inside the station and bathroom, I’m thinking it’s 84 degrees. Celsius. Think sweating, sticky, clothes. I hear the two men talking about something and then, in a loud voice John Law says…

“Todd you gotta come with me.”

“I aint a-gonna, and that’s all there is to that.” Todd says even louder.

Do you enjoy moments like that? Moments that are not funny and yet they are, and if you last through them you know there’ll be a great story. Profound doesn’t have to mean deep, right? Maybe you just learn a lesson – obscure but worth remembering. Perhaps a question that’s always bugged you finally finds its answer. Well…

Listening for a chain saw with one ear and to Todd and the trooper with the other, I’m trying to hustle up and finish my business - sweating in my coat and sweatshirt - and I think this: not so silly now, is it, this invisible or being able to fly choice? Pretty flippin’ profound and apropos, actually.

Either would be fine, I decide, but unfortunately with my life hanging in the balance, I choose fly. Rather, as I stand up and try to quietly and quickly zip up, my fly chooses me.  I learn of a third option for the profound question – the ability to scream until your face turns red, all without making a sound.

Well it’s funny and it hurts and that makes it even funnier. Gathering myself up, I fling the door open and, a bit hunched over, make for the front door. Keeping a close eye on Todd and the Trooper, I don’t see the wire stand and knock it over. A stand of…can you believe it…jars of Mixed Fruit Jelly!

Todd and the Trooper were not quite finished with their business; I’d like to think my adventure actually put their dilemma on pause for a moment. It did long enough for me to head out the door, anyway; darn well hoping I was just a little bit invisible.

As I drove through the neighborhood this afternoon, I saw signs of a terrible disease invading the area. I'm not sure what the medical term is, but I'll just call it NGS. Neat Garage Syndrome. 

A garage equals old shoes, a couple of parted out bicycles, half empty cans of spray paint, and an assortment of spiders, beetles and such. Not the garages I've been seeing. There are peg boards, brackets on the wall, and a place for everything; everything in its place. I just shake my head when I see them. 

I know things have changed, but people, I need someone to drag a couple of rather large, heavy, rusted car parts and put them on a bench. How else will young boys learn the life lesson of banged and bleeding knuckles?

We need to see an old radio with just one working speaker, a 5 by 4 foot sign that mysteriously showed up in the garage one day, and a set of golf clubs that include one through five woods actually made of wood. If you need three old basketballs, all with various amounts of air but none with enough to bounce…come see me.

Instead of things in piles, we see cabinets with locks and extra shelves anchored into the ceiling of the garage. If you look carefully you’ll see matching sets of garden gloves. The other day we saw a tiled garage floor. Tiled! Great Scott!

If these folks don't shake the disease soon, how will they ever realize the relief of a huge sneeze from layers of dust?

How will they ever get their "stripes" without banging their shins on a piece of jagged metal that has no purpose, but never gets thrown away?

If their garages stay too neat and tidy, how will they ever enjoy the intense stretching exercises involved in getting out of the car when you can't open the door all they way because of all the lawn and garden equipment laying against the wall, just under empty hooks? 

I don't know, I just don't know.

I know a fellow that drives a fast, red, zillion dollar sports car and he – in his words – “don’t drive it real fast.” In the last three weeks, while not driving very fast, he collected a close call, a speeding ticket, and, amazingly enough, another speeding ticket. “Yeah I was speeding but…” and then the obligatory tale of circumstantial victimization unfolds.

Seems my friend found a speed trap one morning. When he got to work, he was mad at the world, but that laughing mad; know that mad? The kind of mad that makes you chuckle with everyone else at your misfortune, but in the middle of it all you give your, “but…” speech. In this case, the speech went about like this:

“It was backed up pretty good, but I could see traffic moving around the curve, so I thought I’d just wait it out. Then this truck carrying a bunch of cows or cattle gets in front of me, and guess what? Them cows start peeing. All twelve thousand of them, I swear and it’s going all over my car! First chance I had to get over, I got over, and the exit was right there, so I took it. I’m haulin’ tail to find a car wash and that’s when Barney tagged me.”

Then he clinches it with a logical conclusion.

“If those cows don’t pee on my car, I stay on the expressway, and I don’t get the ticket.”

As he says this, the crowd gathered around erupts with laughter. A week later one of us will have the stage with a tale of equal passion and human suffering. I don’t know whether it is our lifelong search for perfection or the human desire to be right as much as possible that drives this type of thinking. We all do it, though. 

Sometimes – I mean once or twice in my life - I’ve done it on a much smaller scale.

Like when I justify a midnight raid on the refrigerator to the Food Police. 

“I know….I know,” I tell her the next morning as she takes careful inventory of every datgum crumb, “but if I don’t eat it, you will, and you’ll feel bad. I’m trying to help you and see how I get thanked.” She used to laugh.

I’m not sure it this is all right or wrong or just how it is. I think the simple answer is a two-parter. If you’re listening to a story of redirected responsibility, you end up laughing and laughing harder as the teller tries to justify it. If you’re the teller, you give just the facts, ma’am, and just like everyone else slip that, “but…” in at some point. You might even try explaining it again, and ask someone if they feel like you do about it. And they’ll laugh even harder. I guess we’ll always do it, though. 

How else could we cope?