In the late 1960s, Jim Morrison and The Doors released a song titled, “Light My Fire.” I’m positive lyrics to the popular tune had nothing to do with lighting a campfire or gas stove.
Dad sang a similar tune yet with different meaning. Whenever someone was pokey and not doing their job, he’d bellow out for all to hear,
“Someone needs to light a fire under their butt!”
If the person was horribly slow and he became lit while waiting, my father exchanged butt for a harsher word starting with A. The old man had little patience with incompetent workers.
I was parked beside a fast-food, drive-thru speaker the other morning. It took several minutes for an employee to finally acknowledge that anyone was there. Ordering two cups of coffee and a couple of egg biscuits, nothing was said by the clerk in return.
Waiting for perhaps another three minutes, I softly whispered to Joleen,
“Earth to worker. Earth to worker. Come in please!”
That’s a favorite line of mine. I generally replace worker with first names whenever friends don’t respond back to a question.
The gal finally spoke up, asking if I’d decided yet. Looking at Joleen and smirking, I whispered that perhaps this person needed our coffee.
It took another length of time before we were able to pay and get our food. Looking at a boldly printed logo in red ink on the paper sack, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Flavor Lit by Fire
I thought of Dad and what he’d say in this situation. Without doubt my father would glance at the bag and then remark,
“There’s something more than flavor needing lit in that place!”
I like to write junk... 