It’s my hope that you’ll print this in the next issue of the Springdale News.
Regarding today’s front-page story: I’m surely just one of thousands dismayed to read that Mayor Pendleton’s pants slipped down around his ankles during last night’s address at City Hall. However, while I think we can all agree it was unfortunate (and no doubt humiliating), I must take issue with your reporter, Alan Hendale, who went out of his way to label the incident “suspicious.”
We all know what he was implying.
And I have to tell you, I’ve grown tired of being the “go-to” guy whenever something out of the ordinary occurs. For far too long, I’ve been the first suspect every time someone hears a creak on the stairs or disembodied heavy breathing coming from the corner of the women’s locker room at Springdale Health and Fitness.
I shouldn’t have to remind Mr. Hendale that pants fall down every day all across this great nation, often at inopportune moments and with—let’s admit it—hilarious results. There’s even the possibility that this was simply the good mayor’s idea of a joke. Not a clever one, by any means, but, then, we’re talking about the man who wanted to waste municipal funds by supplying heat-vision goggles to every police officer, bank security guard, and fitness-club employee in the city. Thankfully, his proposal was shot down by the much wiser and more fiscally responsible City Council members, who were, at the time, in the grip of a bizarre psychosomatic condition in which they suffered unexplained arm pinches and hair pulling.
When they did the right thing, each and every one of them subconsciously eliminated their own pain … but this might be a good time to remind them that if they ever think about changing their minds, things could be taken up a notch or two. The subconscious is a mysterious thing. And powerful. Best not to get on its bad side.
Returning to the subject, however, I’d like the citizens of Springdale to understand that it’s not easy going through life in my condition. I can only hope that none of them ever experience the same misfortune I did on that terrible day when I accidentally ingested the invisibility formula I’d been working on for years and subsequently lost all my notes in a tragic wastebasket fire.
Despite my wretched state—a state no one will duplicate no matter how hard they try—I’m just a normal person trying to live the most normal life I can. Yet that becomes more difficult when I open the paper and see unwarranted insinuations aimed my way. I hope the next time Mr. Hendale finds his shoelaces coming untied every few minutes or feels the sudden urge to throw himself out into heavy traffic, he realizes that it’s simply karma.
Actually, that’s a little harsh. I’m no expert on such matters, but I’d guess that his karma will be similar to the mayor’s and will probably limit itself to yanking down Mr. Hendale’s pants at some unfortunate moment. During an important interview? At the grocery store? On a first date?
You never know.
The Invisible Man