The Grumpledinks

Ridiculous characters pester me, undermining my seriousness and disturbing my peace, obliviously carrying on in the shadow-side of my mind, mumbling and bumbling, existing probably to test my patience.   I have peopling my imagination a circus of such characters, vagabonds, hobos, the dumb Hans of fairytales, clownishly dressed up, tumbled around and spat out of the undertow of my higher aspiration.   One might say they are immortal.   They never die.   Squash one, and another even more motley takes its place, springing up and behaving with as much maddening persistence as gum stuck on one’s shoe.

Angry outbursts only strengthen and embolden them.   Nothing seems to hurt them.   Like Weeble Wobbles ya’ can’t knock ’em down.   Corner one and whack, slap and punch it in the head, and it bounces up more defiantly impish than before, with a more exaggerated appearance, a stranger and more alive physiognomy, it may be a funnier looking nose, larger protruding ears, an odder shape to its skull.    The more one takes out on them, abusing them, chasing them around and attempting to drive them out if not kill them, the more they stick around, making themselves at home, and turn into a perfectly suited mockery of oneself.

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