You get out of bed. The bedroom is spacious and architecturally positioned to catch the maximum amount of morning sunlight. You walk towards the window and look out at the vast blue expanse of sky sheltering your neighbours' houses, the roads, trees and cars. You look down at the dresser below the window. It is made of mahogany and all your wife's accoutrements are neatly in their places, a large brass alarm clock holding the centre. You think about what would happen if this were not a mahogany dresser but God's control panel and in the centre there's a large red button which turns gravity off. You imagine you are God, angered by the route down which man's free will has taken American society, pressing the button. You watch as all the cars topple upwards, the humans skidding away from the sanctity and certainty their lives, all of it, all the debris of the earth sucked out into the chaos and unknown of the cosmos. You, God, Mel Gibson, are the only safe, certain thing which remains, surveying your cleansed creation.
You notice a figure intruding into your pleasant daydream. There is a man in your yard. You're fairly sure he works in your gardening staff. You don't know his name. He is wearing gloves and carrying a large bundle of branches towards the end of the yard.
Do you want to:
Go to the bathroom to wash your face and floss.
Open the window and hurl the large brass alarm clock at the gardener.
You notice a figure intruding into your pleasant daydream. There is a man in your yard. You're fairly sure he works in your gardening staff. You don't know his name. He is wearing gloves and carrying a large bundle of branches towards the end of the yard.
Do you want to:
Go to the bathroom to wash your face and floss.
Open the window and hurl the large brass alarm clock at the gardener.