In Honor of Paul Bunyan

I sat, bored out of my mind, chewing my pencil. I wished to myself, silently, that it would end. It just seemed to go on forever.

Then I thought of my grandpa’s favorite saying: “life is mostly drudgery, so mentally check out whenever you can.” Grandpa was not a happy person. Still, this seemed like a good time to try his advice out.

The police, though, could not be convinced that zoning out while diving an 18-wheeler at 90mph on I-35 was what grandpa meant. I didn't think the accident was such a big deal. The truck only plowed into a giant wooden sculpture of Paul Bunyan. "It's not like anyone died," I said.

What I didn’t know: 2 things; Grandpa crashed in Paul Bunyan’s hometown, which was also home of the first logging factory. It was a State law to respect all things wood, ESPECIALLY Statues of their most famous resident. “This constitutes jail time,” said one of the park rangers.

And second, that Grandpa had crossed the lumberjack Maffia. How was he supposed to know selling off brand flannel shirts from the trunk of his car would cause so much trouble? Finding a plate of flapjacks with "You're Dead" written in maple syrup was the worse day of his life.

Grandpa collapsed into his breakfast. He thought of all the mistakes he'd made that led to this moment. As he lifted his head—syrup dripping off his face—he re-committed himself to a life of honor, deciding to personally drive to P. Bunyan's cabin, flannel in tow, to make amends.