Geez, the comments you get when you complain about people showing Santa’s butt-crack in one article then you kill him off with DECON laced cookies in another article. These must be the same people who tell you not to bring snacks to church or belch in public. The nerve.
So anyway, I’m driving in bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic, 20 minutes late, marveling at the number of cars out shopping, when a thought occurs to me. I’ve always claimed 13 was my lucky number. I’m actually a pretty happy guy with decent luck and enough material goods to keep me busy. As I slam on the brakes to avoid some idiot stopping for no apparent reason, it comes to me, what if I hadn’t picked 13 as my lucky number? Between curses under my breath at the other driver and reinserting the piece of cardboard I had jammed into my radio’s on-switch to keep it depressed and working, I couldn’t imagine anything being any different because of a silly number. But still, as I forced my way into a solid line of grinch-driven traffic to narrowly make my turn for home, I wondered if I should have stuck with 42… or 7… or maybe even 1089, just to be unique. As I scuffed the tires on the curb parallel parking in front of the house, and carried my box of personal items from work inside, I came to the conclusion that my days were all pretty normal, so what could it possibly change for me? Besides, lucky numbers are just a lot of superstitious nonsense anyway, knock on wood.