Omana Glaby-Om

You all might think that the world had nearly come to an end on that fateful summer day whereon little Mikey Nitrous had his pores removed, but you would, of course, be wrong. Just take a look around you. The world goes on, while little Mikey Nitrous no longer sweats.

I should, perhaps, qualify that statement. Little Mikey Nitrous no longer sweats nor exudes sebaceous oils through a good 90% of his skin surface. His glandular structure was so altered in the process as to allow him to sweat through his gums and the soles of his feet. On a hot summer day one could track a barefoot little Mikey Nitrous on dry pavement, as wet footprints mark his path. Sock manufacturers loved little Mikey's new glandular arrangement, while his mother was not as keen on the whole mess.

So on that fateful day of his pore-removal surgery, it was not the glandular re-arrangement that made such the dent in the fabric of reality (as one might otherwise expect), but rather little Mikey's embrace of the philosophy and tenets of Glaby-ism. Glaby was the old man down the street who used to entice children to “pull his finger” by giving them small treats, such as landjaeger and bits of gruyere. Glaby ran the local pigeon coop. Glaby shaved his eyebrows. Glaby spoke a dead language and wore white after Labor Day. And most importantly, Glaby practiced Glaby-ism.

If you look up Glaby-ism in a directory of the world's philosophies and religions, you will likely find no entry. If it says anything at all about Glaby-ism, it might only mention the shaved eyebrows of its founder. Glaby-ism never gained the popularity of nihilism, dualism, Marxism, socialism, empiricism, Shintoism, dadaism, realism, fuggism (in either its mahayana or deli-fresh forms), dwarfism, or fetishism, but it left its mark on little Mikey Nitrous. Perhaps it might leave its mark on you, too.

Glaby-ism teaches that to stand and stare blankly is the highest good. Glaby-ism teaches that the great confusion of all humankind is to be embraced and encouraged through strong drink. Glaby-ism teaches that to shout in public is wrong, unless there is an emergency. And Glaby-ism teaches that we must always be willing to share a little bit of our lunch with someone else, unless one has brought potted meat – you can keep your potted meat to yourself. The adherents to Glaby-ism are encouraged to wear sweaters and eyeglasses (rather than contact lenses), and to criticize unjustly only when the other person really deserves it. Glaby himself always wanted to include some particular tenets regarding landjaeger, gruyere, and the pulling of fingers, but as is often the case with the great systems of thought from around the world, his followers made slight deviations from the ideas of the founder. Such is life.

So it was, on that fateful day of his surgery, that little Mikey Nitrous embraced the way of Glaby-ism. He donned his favorite argyle sweater and his eyeglasses, took a stiff belt of Kentucky Bourbon, and headed to the doctor's office. His pore-removal had nothing to do with his embrace of Glaby-ism – I must be clear about that. There is no room for the old “post hoc ergo propter hoc” business in this tale, let me assure you. Mikey had been saving his nickels and dimes for years in anticipation of the surgery, and as soon as he turned twelve and his mother agreed to sign the consent form, Mikey prepared for surgery.

I will share the details of the surgery with you at a later date if you are not too squeamish and if you promise to leave your potted meat at home. The operation was, obviously, a success, and little Mikey came out of surgery a smooth, perfect, poreless, and dry little boy. After he was discharged, he lit up a cigarette just outside the hospital, and breathed in the cool, fresh tobacco flavor. As men had before, he silently thanked the Camel corporation for putting the tiny little cancer-preventing filter on the end of the cigarette, and he took another long, smooth, and very, very, very deep drag and exhaled the smoke though his anus. An elderly lady walked by and frowned at him.

“A little boy like you should not be smoking,” said the elderly matron, “and it is far too warm of a day to be wearing such a heavy sweater."

Mikey stood and stared blankly into space, splashing gently in his merino wool socks. Silently, he pondered the definition of the word “unjustly”.