“The idiots are running the asylum!” Big John Hudson stormed through the front door of Sarah’s diner, slammed his ball cap down on the big round table, and let loose with a disjointed tirade on, well, none of the folks sitting around the table had a clue as to what John was going on about.
The day before, feasts had been prepared, heads had bowed and thanks had been given. This was followed closely by devouring over-filled plates of turkey and everything else that goes with a plump, juicy bird, including multiple helpings of pumpkin pie drowning in whipped cream. The next day, turkey leftovers were scheduled to transition into sandwiches and soup, relish trays were reduced to a few wrinkled gherkins, and the digested remnants of far too many deviled eggs had begun to befoul the morning air.
It was the Friday after Thanksgiving and, due to lingering symptoms of dietary over-indulgence and tryptophan sedation, the members of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club had convened a little later than usual for little more than coffee and conversation – more coffee than conversation. That was, until Big John Hudson charged through the front door and made his grand announcement (the whole inmate/asylum thing).
“The world is full of crazy people and Black Friday is their national holiday.” John was unrelenting as he sputtered on about inmates, asylums and crazy people. Ordinarily, the guys sitting around the big round table could chose to ignore John’s histrionics by continuing with their own conversations, leaving him to mumble incoherently at his menu until Sarah showed up to take his order. However, on this Friday, just a few short hours removed from unvarnished gluttony, no one had the strength to carry on a competing conversation. They were at Big John’s mercy.
“Fools! All of ‘em! Fools and idiots! Fools and idiots and crazy people!” John had to take a quick breath before he could continue to describe, whatever it was that he was trying to describe. “And the world’s worst drivers!”
“I’d ask you what you’re going on about,” mumbled Harry, “But, I don’t really want to know.”
“Black Friday shoppers,” growled John. “It is nuts out there. You cannot get anywhere. Grape Road was full of people trying to run each other over. You cannot park anywhere because there isn’t enough asphalt this side of, well, this side of wherever asphalt comes from. You cannot buy anything because of tag-team shoppers filling shopping carts to the ceiling of the big-box stores. And the lines, don’t get me started on the lines.”
“I did not want to get you started on any of this,” explained Jimmy, still uncertain as to what John was talking about. “Did you go Black Friday Shopping?”
“Absolutely not! That’s for fools and crazy people.”
“Then why do you care about the craziness going on out at Grape Road?” asked Mort.
“Because I was picking up a new 80 inch TV, on sale at half price. I had to fight all those insane Black Friday shoppers. They were slamming carts into each other, growling like rabid dogs and, well, getting in my way. It got so bad, I had to fight one guy for the last TV. Actually had to yank it out of his cart. He was pretty peeved – hit me a couple of times with his cane. Those people were crazy. There should be a law.”
“I think there might be a law about stealing things out of other people’s shopping carts,” suggested Tommy Jones, the senior member of the group.
“He had not paid for it yet. It wasn’t stealing. All those other people were going crazy. I was just trying to buy a new television at 5:30 in the morning. Those people should have been at home, still in bed. What were they thinking?”
“Yep. Crazy,” smirked Harry.
“Idiot, pretty much says it all,” simpered Jimmy.
“Fool is right,” offered Mort over another sip of coffee.
“You got that right,” laughed Tommy, unable to hide his incredulousness. “What do some people think?”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.