Why do people insist on using the expression, “when life hands you lemons…”?
First off, Life never hands you anything. Life is like a deranged hobo living under the rail road bridge. If you’re unfortunate enough to walk by him, he hurls whatever he can get his hands on at you like a grenade.
And second, lemons are not the life’s’ munition of choice. You see, life is more content to hurl out three week old salmonella riddled chicken heads, that splatter with a sickening thud against your face. A mucus laden spit-ball flung with such terrifying force as to stir up memories of the sixth grade bully… and dodge-ball… Splattering brain matter an dead chicken snot in your eyes and mouth.
And of course, not wanting to actually touch the mess of rotting flesh and rubbery bone matter–weakened through stewing in what can be only described as a broth of blood, faeces, and liquefied flesh matter–you end up standing there with an odd mixed expression of both horror and surprise, arms extended in a faux crucifix.
Ultimately you end up just standing there, mortified and somewhat curious where that muck-ball will end up as it slowly slides down your face, neck, and inevitably into your shirt–which incidentially is almost always both you favorite, and ironically, your last clean shirt.
The taste of the bits of muck that have somehow found purchase betwixt the bitter and sweet taste buds leaving you retching. It’s the taste of rotten eggs boiled in bird pooh and marinated dog urine.
And that’s when you finally take that fateful breath. You are forced to draw air through your nose, as you’re mouth is still suffering the offence of actually tasting the filth. Unfortunately your body has involuntarily been holding out on breathing until now, so that first breath is forced drawing not only air, but also the putrid stench of rotting flesh mixed with actual bits of congealed goo. This has a two pronged effect, There is a dual reaction between your lungs fighting to draw breath and your nasal passaged closing to stop the invading bits of carcase out of your air passages, causing you to snort. Of course this sudden snort forces that same invading chicken goo to travel further up your nose, and down the back of your throat finally resting on the backside of your uvula.
Of course, with every single sense of your being universally offended, you vomit. Further adding to the mix of filth and muck and leaving you hopelessly defiled.
Eventually you will manage to regain enough composure to walk step after agonizing step back to your home, greadily lusting after a long hot shower… with bleach… However apon reaching your domicile, you are greeted with a red notice on your door… Your water has been turned off for building maintenance.
You see, there are no lemons available for life to hand. Only three week old salmonella riddled chicken heads.