Common Sense Shortage

Mr. Jones came home from The Factory looking forlorn, depressed, and dejected. His normally perky wife adjusted her cheerful mood to compensate his and took his much larger hand in hers.

“What is it, darling?” she whispered, “The Factory didn’t fire you, did it? If they did, I shall gasp in disbelief and swoon right now. However shall we afford this lovely home you bought? What will we tell darling Jane and Tommy, when we have to pull them from private school and, I shudder to think of it, send them to a place of public education? Oh, my! I shall cry right here on the spot!” Her bright red lips, smothered in strawberry-berry lipstick, trembled and the promised tears welled in her baby blues.

Mr. Jones patted her hand in the most awkward way he could imagine and sighed. It was a long, drawn out sound that made the dog’s ears perk up.

“Nothing like that, dear.”

“Oh! Well, then why are you looking so forlorn, depressed, and dejected this evening?” Mrs. Jones asked, wiping away the tears and smiling.

“I am afraid The Factory is coming up short this month. Won’t meet our quota, you see.” He rubbed his goatee and shook his head. “Rough times are ahead, darling. Many, many people will be straight out of luck.”

Mrs. Jones finally felt justified to gasp. “But dear! A shortage means more people will be injured. Nobody will know how to--”

“I know, I know,” Mr. Jones interrupted. He gently pushed her hand away and stood. Turning to the fireplace, he watched the wood blaze and burn. “A common sense shortage is never a good thing but what’s even worse is deciding who will receive the sense, and who will not. And since I can’t have any favoritism toward our family, I have had to make the difficult, hard, and sad decision to give up our portion for the month.”

Mrs. Jones gasped again, more deeply this time and with greater pleasure. “Mr. Jones, how could you! However will I drive to my Bridge game with the girls? Or cook my beautiful roasts? How will you help Tommy with his football or Jane with her arithmetic?” She sniffed and allowed the tears to fill her eyes again.

“Now, now, dear. None of that. We must take one for the team. Or rather, The Factory. Perhaps next month we’ll be over quota and can get a double portion. Until then, we need to just hunker down and try to survive.” He glanced at his watch. “Our sense will be gone in two minutes, dear. How would you like to spend the time?”

Mrs. Jones patted her perfectly coifed hair and winked. "I think you know, Mr. Jones."

He grinned, took her hand, and grabbed Monopoly from their game shelf.





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"The Writer's Cramp"