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The Spider Jesus Trod On
"Let me tell you, I've seen some rough times, I have. Rough but good, is what I always say. Awful but cheerful."
"Right." He made a rather loud shlurping noise on his drink. He knew it wasn't terribly polite, but he couldn't help it, sometimes you just get to the bottom of a glass and it sort of does that. It's no one's fault, really.
"Right so. Like the one time. The time. Have I told you about this time?"
"No, don't think so, no. Go on, then." He gestured for another drink. Not that he was served. Or would be served, for that matter. This was largely due to himself being a spider, and sitting in the bottom of a now empty glass with this other old fella spider he tended to go out and about with, if only because he was able to ignore the old guy's stories quite a lot of the time, and just dig about for scraps left in the glasses around the bar. And it's very rare they serve spiders. Intentionally, anyway. So his gesture probably spoke volumes of world-weariness with a sort of wry comment on his own station in life, as it were, though it was bound to pass unnoticed. After all, he was a spider, sitting in a glass with another spider in a bar.
The old fella leaned in a tad closer. "He trod on me, Jesus did, crushed two of my legs."
"Really? Jesus?"
"Really."
"No way!" He eyed the old fella's legs. Rolling his eyes in a show of disbelief and mild, polite horror, he also managed to glimpse up at the rim of the glass. He had a feeling he may have heard this story before, but he couldn't quite be certain. He didn't think so, at any rate, which was a nice change.
"... Well."
"Wow. And you'd think he was such a nice guy and everything."
"And you do. Well, it could have been him, anyway. The guy had quite long hair, seemed to have a Jesus-like sort of walk to him, you know?"
"No, how's that?"
"Well, sort of relaxed-like. Sort of like... you know... like this." The old fella gallumped his legs in a sort of manner that, the other spider had to give him, did resemble what he sort of pictured Jesus walking like. It was also sort of the way he pictured John Cleese walking, which was possibly more of a stretch, as the bar they were in was in the year 29 A.D. As was the rest of the place they were in. Time is funny that way.
"Right." If he had had a beard, now would have been an ideal opportunity to stroke it thoughtfully. Alas, he didn't have one, so he settled for propping his legs up against the wall of the glass in a way he'd always imagined looked thoughtful. "But you're okay now, then, are you?"
"Yeah, I'm all right. Bit sore when the weather gets cold, and that one leg just never feels right, but there you have it. Happens when you get old as well, so I can't complain. Just the thing, though, isn't it? You hear all about these famous ones, and there they go, stepping all over your legs like that. I don't even think he stopped to apologise, really."
"Yeah. Never seen him, myself. He's quite tall, apparently."
"Aw, he's not so tall.
"Really?"
"Well, taller than me."
"Ehm, yeah."
"Oh wow, and just straight after, so I'm sitting there, in a small bit of pain, holding my two legs, and John swings straight by and hits me with his robe. Those things are damn heavy. Bloody thing almost suffocated me. And of course the bastard stops and chats with it on top of me, and you wouldn't believe how long that guy can talk. The mouth on him!"
"Wait, is that John the taco guy?"
"No, no, the other one, the one with the water fetish thing."
"Ah, right, him. Seen him. He's not so tall, really."
"No. And right, so picture him, but a little taller. Maybe a few inches. That's Jesus. Tall-wise, anyway."
"Right okay, I see." And he did, he sort of pictured a shorter sort of guy with a heavy robe. Okay, so it was vague, but he could still imagine. Besides, he thought the beer might finally be getting to him. It always made him a bit tipsy when he slurped it. "Urr..." And which is when, as it often happened, he lurched against the side of the glass, and the old fella stopped mumbling for a second, and only this time he hit the glass, and it tipped, and down they plummeted, off the bar mat on the floor, soaking in an interesting combination of water, soap suds, a few different types of beer and wine, and goats milk, which was a big thing at this particular bar, and the glass smashed all over the soaked bar mat and the surrounding floor and the two spiders were sent hither and thither and yon and quite possibly injured one or more legs between the two of them and this is why spiders aren't really know for being great craic at the pub.
disclaimer:
This is not, I would have you know, related to the stories of Bill the duck, though, thinking about it after having read this, they do seem remarkably similar.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Olé olé!