Bobby Lee Goosey
The Rutabaga Runner
I am the rutabaga runner. I run rutabagas in the dark of the
night by the light of the moon through the streets of the cloistered
metropolis. Why? Because I love rutabagas, with their purplish-white skin and their
luscious light-yellow insides. They go just right with mashed potatoes, mashed
up along with the mashed potatoes (and then add a dollop of butter): yum.
I grow rutabagas in my garden. Masses of them. Too many for
me alone to eat, even though I consume scads and scads and scads of rutabagas.
For years I tried to share my extra rutabagas with friends and acquaintances.
But there is an ancient stigma attached to liking rutabagas, rutabagas are
something one is not supposed to like, and nobody would admit to liking the
taste of rutabagas. Not by the light of day. So, even though they all loved,
deep down in their viscera, the piquant taste of the luscious yellow insides of
the ambrosial rutabaga, friends and acquaintances screwed up fastidious noses
at my offer, turned away in disgust. No one would admit, by the light of the
day, to wanting, craving rutabagas.
But now I have found a way to provide people with the
rutabagas they crave, but minus the stigma. I set my alarm for three. I arise
and don my purple velour track suit and running shoes. Under each arm I place a
paper bag teeming with the succulent roots, the gift of the gods to humankind.
Then I run. I run sequestered by darkness, I run in the dark of the night by
the light of the moon through the streets of the cloistered metropolis. Upon
the doorstep of a house picked at random I lay my purplish-white (outside) and
light-yellow (inside) gifts, and I run to the next house, and then the next; I
run, now unburdened and exultant, back in the dark of the night by the light of
the moon to my own humble cloistered abode.
I sleep once more and in my dreams I see the loveliness of
rutabagas. I see people opening the front doors of their houses by the light of
the dawn and the now pallid moon on the streets of the cloistered metropolis. I
hear their hushed exclamations of astonished joy:
“John, o John, come quickly. Look. The rutabaga runner has
been here! Now we shall have for breakfast mashed potatoes, commingled with the
luscious mushy-yellow mashed-up insides of the ambrosial rutabaga. With a big
dollop of butter on top. We need not fear the stigma, for no one will see, no
one will know. God bless him, God bless the rutabaga runner!”
I sleep on and smile in my dreams. I have found true meaning
in life. I am the rutabaga runner.
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