I had a rough run of luck a while back and was distressed to the point of seeking out a rubbing doctor of local repute.

“Who are you?” he inquired with scant interest, “not that I really care.”

“Welsir,” I confessed “I am an afflicted soul on the rough road to forever more, and I need a tad of doctoring to help me over a rough spot.”

“What’s the main complaint?” he asked with an engaging smirk.

“I can’t say exactly, but I’ve diagnosed it as a bad case of the episidocits, not under the standard handle of ‘infrastructure failure’.  As an added threat to my well being I am distressed with a bumper crop of R and D’s  who want to guide me safely through the quagmire of making a choice of the most gifted characters in several years with my future life!”

“I’ll need to ask a few questions on your case prior to my complete diagnosis,” he stated—“and I’ll need a twenty dollar bill to help me in my solution of this vexing condition.”  I tore a twenty half in two and proffered him the smallest half.  “I’ll pay the rest when I’m satisfied,” I said.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Before I go full bore into your individual malady,” he stated, “I’d like to delve into your personal problem, and I need to know some of your early history and the root cause of your infrastructure agonies.”

“Shoot!” I said.  “I ain’t got no secrets.”

“Are the soles of your feet tender and sore?”

“Yes, verily I say unto you,” I said with considerable fervor.  “My pain is intense amd might nigh unbearable, and I have suffered mightily since I passed my first grade of education at Comyn Elementary.”

“What seemed to be the prelude to your discomfort?  Did you wear good Tom Mccann shoes?”

“Nope.” I admitted.  “I half soled my hand me down shoes from the inside with corrugated paste board, and topped that with a hand cut peach basket slat of wood atop the cardboard.  As time passed, and the birds sang, minute splinters stood erect and worked their way into the meaty soles of my feet.  The mixture set up and became a mixture of impregnable density.  To this day shreds work their way to the surface and I pluck them out with tweezers.  To be honest, I’m looking for a quick fix.  Issue me words of wisdom and the other half of my twenty will appear in your hand.”

Sadly he lowered his gaze and flat footed that mine was the only sure panacea for the affliction.  “You’ll just have to work patiently, diligently and whack the damage off.  It’ll be a slow go, but it’s the only long term recovery to your ancient running gear.”

“Sacre Bleu,” I expostulated.  “Do you mean to tell me that such a cure for our crumbling infrastructure will be the national problem solver?”

“Absolutely!” he comforted.  “We’re gonna hafta cinch the void with detritus, compact it in—and Viola! Case Closed, and we’ll live happily forevermore!”

“Zounds!” I cried, “and where did you acquire the secret to National and Worldwide ease of pressure?”

“I sat across the table from Almighty Al as the Polar Ice Cap turned to steam.  If the populace of the Earth will harden to the battle cry you’ll be relieved from the woes of infrastructure weaknesses!”

“Here’s the other half of that twenty.”  I extended the final payment.

“What’s the battle cry for this campaign?”

“It’s Alegorrical!  Down with cigarettes.”

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is 333 W. Ayers, De Leon TX 76444.

You can e-mail me at Charles@CharlesChupp.com.

By Charles Chupp, Copyright ©2008 Charles Chupp