My Walking Stick Is Broken

While spraying the begonias with pesticide, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Donald Rumsfeld was rummaging through my gardening supplies. When I turned to face him, he had placed a tall, narrow bucket on his head and picked up my walking stick. Mr. Donald raised his arms, spread them wide, my walking stick his scepter. Trouble.

"I'm a bird — slow, powerful, full of grace." He moved his head like something beaked. A great phoenix. The bucket remained firmly on his head.

"Good morning, Mr. Donald," I said. "How are you today?"

"In the school I attended as a child, I had a teacher who taught me magic," Mr. Donald said. "Lenny Gardner, give King Rumsfeld your walking stick. Give him one, he gives back two. Rumsfeld is the King of the Empire!"

"No, Mr. Donald," I say. I shuddered.

"The cane, the cane. There shall be two again," he sang.

"For the love of God, please!"

"Stubble, bubble, double the rubble!" He snapped my walking stick over his knee and gave back the pieces.

I am in the market for a new walking stick.