I’m the punchline to a poorly worded joke, broken down by the grandfather clock’s own hands. Unable to avoid the laughter, I tiptoe across rotten tomatoes towards the shiny pendulum swinging from right to left, its dyslexia biding me time before the next round of giggling disgrace. A jester chimes in. Something about falling from my rocker or rocking myself to sleep in disbelief of being the butt end of tonight’s sense of humor. Smearing some cement within my ears, I can hardly hear the unpleasantness, the taunts, and jeers. Suddenly, a bright idea comes to me: to leave behind my own piece of mind. Turning my back, I proclaim, “It’s all Greek to me!” as my warship alights across the sea of stone-cold hecklers.