Manilow, bugs and I

I feed the bugs.

Not as sexy as "I sing the songs," but I do.

And I don't make the "whole world cry," just my knees.

Now that it's summer, and I prance around in my short pants (prance, I do), I hit my knees on everything. Big globs of flesh go missing daily.

And I have no doubt that the "dead-skin" eating bugs see these strips of skin and think to themselves "Mana! Mana from heaven!" Yes, it's true. 40 bug-years in the desert of my office, and all that they have to eat are my discarded and quite painful knee-buffers.

I can see bug-Moses leading them to the bed, where my flesh it torn nightly by my cat. Talk about the land of milk and honey. Sometimes I think I'm nothing more than a giant hangnail on the finger of the hand of the arm of the Supreme Being.

But then I get a grip, and realize that I am nothing more or less than a big trough for the bugs that feed on my waste.

God bless America.