Sitting at home, drinking orange juice, and updating my resume. I wasn’t expecting anything unusual — no Spanish inquisition, no liquid gurus, no nude skeletons. But the unexpected arrived: sawdust tyros.

“Hey! I’m trying to work on my resume here!” I shouted. They didn’t care. They were tyros, spewing sawdust all over my desk, turning my orange juice into a fibrous sludge of acidic chemicals. I shivered at the thought of taking another sip. Trying to keep in mind the uplifting words of my guru, racing legend Bobby Bopbobtail, who once said, “Do not censor your epiphanies, unless the public is snooping where they don’t belong,” I stood up to do battle with the sawdust tyros.

I quickly fashioned a make-shift sword out of my resume drafts and a vial of rattlesnake venom that I kept in my computer desk for just such an emergency. The sawdust tyros hesitated — they weren’t expecting a resume venom sword. I was all set to knock them into Cheyenne when a thick mist descended on all of us. It was as if I was inside of a pillow, if that pillow was filled with mist and the distinct smell of sawdust-infused orange juice.

I decided that this mist wasn’t going to stop me, and I charged towards them (or, at least, where I had last seen them.) They screamed out in pain and tried to throw birdseed in my eyes, but years of training has left me immune to birdseed. My metabolism skyrocketed, and the sawdust tyros were soon reduced to nothing more than an innocuous pile of shredded wood.

I took the birdseed and planted it in the ground, hoping to one day grow a thriving, verdant bird tree in this spot. One day my grandchildren will play in the shade of my birdtree, and I will tell them this story (although I may exaggerate some of the details, and make up a few extra tangents, possibly involving bees.) They will surely look up at me in awe, and sing epic poem songs of my heroism in the face of sawdust.

Bobby Bopbobtail would have been so proud.