by Robert Rohloff
“Some horrible black clouds rolling in, Mom,” Ben said to his wife, Lillian, who stood over a sizzling frying pan on top the stove. He lowered his coffee cup from his mouth, placing it upon the kitchen table, looked back out the window. “Big storm, maybe a tornado coming.”
Lillian turned over the catfish in the frying pan. “You and your tornados. Every time a black cloud appears in the sky, you scream tornado. Tell me, Ben, when is the last time we had a tornado around these parts?”
Ben thought, while rubbing his whiskered face. “Son of a gun, you might be right, Mom. I am eighty years old and can’t recall ever seeing a tornado in these parts, but that doesn’t mean that one can’t happen.”
“We have been arguing about this same subject for the last sixty years, Ben. Enough is enough. I am getting sick of it!”
Ben shook his head. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared for the worst, the early bird gets the worm.”
“For God sakes, Ben, what is that suppose to mean? The early bird gets the worm.”
“Never mind, Mom, you would never understand.”
“Oh, now I’m stupid, am I?” Lillian started flipping the catfish.
“If the shoe fits, wear it,” Ben replied.
Lillian walked over to the table, raising the frying pan high above her head, and brought it crashing down across the top of Ben’s head.
Ben crumbled to the floor.
“Tornado Lillian just hit the early bird,” Lillian whispered.