Runt is in a real Pickle!

By Jack Elliott
Contributor

The Runt was in a pickle. And this was not a pickle of Pickle’s making. This pickle was one the Runt managed to conjure up all by himself.
It all started when Babs and Boopsie from the Guilty Insurance Agency decided to spearhead the Relay for Life in Drizzle Creek. They were looking for celebrity walkers to raise the profile of their effort. They didn’t ask me muttering something about people would rather pay to see me stoned. Five bucks a stone.
At the debating table in the Drizzle Creek Bakery Babs propositioned the Runt, with a simple, “How about you?” as he demolished another chocolate covered Long John.
Now the Runt didn’t want to appear mean spirited, so as he swallowed the delight, licking the last of the icing off his fingers, he considered his options. The Runt considers himself quite a poker player, a Texas Hold’em aficionado extraordinaire. He decided it was time to run a bluff.
“Sure, I’d be happy to help out, provided you can line up a thousand bucks worth of sponsors,” breezed the Runt as on a chocolate high he eyed another Long John.
“Done! Sign here!” chortled a determined Babs, pushing the sign up sheet across the table.
The Runt hesitated. You see the Runt’s exercise regimen consists mainly of walks to and from his pickup to drive down town and then a few steps to the Bakery or post office provided he can find a convenient parking spot not more than a quarter-block from the final destination. Circling the block in Drizzle Creek until a spot opens up is his alternate modus operandi.
“You’re not going to welsh on me are you?” needled Babs holding out her pen.
The Runt swallowed and signed. Cousin It giggled. The rest of us reached for the pen, in turn making our pledges on the sheet.
The worried look on the Runt’s face evaporated as he mentally tallied up the total.
“Eighty-five bucks is a tad shy of the thousand I agreed to,” chortled the Runt as he disdainfully pushed the pledge sheet back towards Babs.
“That’s okay we’ve got another month to get the rest of the pledges. The relay isn’t until June 11,” explained Babs
“Oh well, I’m sorry, but I promised the guys I would go trout fishing with them that day. It’s an annual event. Can’t be changed. Sorry,” explained the Runt relieved at finding a valid alibi his buddies would support.
“Oh no problem! We’ll go the weekend before,” chorused three members of the fishing expedition. “We’ll stay here and cheer you on.”
“Humpf! You’ll still never raise the thousand bucks,” snorted a disgusted Runt as he pushed away from the table without asking for a fifth refill.
A week later once more around the debating table, as the Runt trowelled an extra layer of peanut butter onto his flaxseed toast he casually inquired how the pledges were coming.
“Not there yet. We’re only up to 920 dollars. Your wife was a major donor,” retorted Babs, smiling ear to ear.
“The traitor!” The Runt choked on his mouthful of toast he was attempting to wash down with a cup of coffee. It was a remarkable imitation of the BP blown oil well in the Gulf.
If you’d like to support the Relay for Life, stop into the Bakery down in Drizzle Creek and sign the Runt’s pledge sheet.
But don’t expect to see him in person. He’s in seclusion for mental and physical training. He’s also busy surfing the Net for a suitable Speedo walking thong.
Should be quite a sight June 11.