Things I Worry About with Lloyd Bunson

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Llyod Bunson, Professional Worrier

Hello 3.5 readers.

I’m Lloyd Bunson, Professional Worrier.

You might remember me from the epic tale, Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life, in which I saved Bookshelf Q. Battler and Video Game Rack Fighter’s lives with my web program, Lloyd Bunson’s Happy Fun Time Ejector Seat Channel.

Yup.  I’m still educating the populace about ejector seats, but now, thanks to BQB, I can write a column about my other favorite pastime – worrying about literally everything.

This column will be a running a log of things I am very, very, VERY concerned about.

In fact, here’s what I’m worried about right now:

  • Getting Framed for a Murder I Didn’t Commit

I spent 98% of my time worrying that a murderer might commit a murder and then frame me for it.

Specifically, I become paralyzed with worry whenever I’m out in public because I fear that a murderer will steal a glass I used at a restaurant or fish a turd I left in a public toilet and leave the glass and/or the turd next to the victim at a crime scene, thus fooling the police into thinking I committed a murder when in fact, I am a law abiding citizen who would never do such a thing.

  • That Someone Might Slip Me a Mickey

I never leave my drink out of my sight, even around people I know and/or by normal standards, would be required by social conventions to consider trustworthy.  I don’t care if you’re my brother, sister, uncle, cousin, or what have you, I am convinced that everyone is thinking about slipping Mickey powder into my drink at all times.

If I need to pee, I’ll bring my drink into the public bathroom.  No one is slipping me a Mickey on my watch.

If I’m alone in my own house, I will walk around, drink in hand. How could I possibly know that while I left the room, a ninja didn’t break into my house, slip a Mickey into my drink, and then slink away?

Look, I’m not a wealthy man. I can’t afford to dump out a perfectly good glass of soda pop every time I need to get up and leave for a moment, and I just can’t take the risk that ninjas aren’t trying to poison me.

If you have enough faith in the world to believe that ninjas aren’t trying to poison your drink every time you leave the room, then God bless you.

Me? I’m not going to get Cosbied, thank you very much.

  • Getting Embalmed/Buried

What if death isn’t so much death as it is an extended, indefinite sleep at low power?

Not only am I an advanced stage hypochondriac who worries constantly about death, I worry that when I die and get embalmed and buried, that I’m just going to lie there for all eternity, feeling terribly claustrophobic in a box where the lid is right up in my grill and I won’t be able to move.

Thus, I have left specific instructions that I am to be cryogenically frozen, as I worry that in the future, scientists will discover the cure to whatever kills me and will therefore drop what they are doing and revive me and cure me.

  • Farting in Front of the Queen of England

I realize this is ridiculous because a) I don’t live in England and b) my gas is more or less under control, but every time I let one rip, I instantly look around just to make sure the Queen of England was not present and/or a witness to my horrifying bodily excretions.

I can see it now.  I fart. I turn around and there she is, the Queen.  Her monocle pops right off her eye in disgust and she exclaims, “Well, I never!” and then she has me locked in the Tower of London, which I am certain is a prison for people who have passed gas in the Queen’s presence.

  • Not Having Enough Money to Pay the Check at a Restaurant

I avoid restaurants for the sole fact that a restaurant is the one type of business that provides you the goods up front, then asks for payment after.

What if I thought I brought a proper form of payment with me but then I didn’t?  There I will be, having consumed a meal I can’t pay for and I know that I will be locked up in a Federal penitentiary or a CIA black site or some other such terrible place and worse, the media will report extensively about how I cheated an Applebee’s out of a chicken finger sampler.

On the rare occasion when I do go to a restaurant, I bring: a) a debit card, b) a credit card c) a second credit card d) cash e) a gold bar f) a friend who has certified to me via a notarized affidavit that he or she has on their person a debit card, two credit cards, cash and a gold bar in the event that my multiple forms of payment fail and g) a goat, cow, pig or other farm animal that I could barter and/or trade to the restaurant in exchange for the cost of my meal.

Keep in mind my earlier fear that murderers are trying to steal my drink glass and plant it at a crime scene in order to frame me, and restaurants are truly places that I avoid at all costs.

  • Pets

I like pets. I worry they are taking notes about us while we sleep and reporting all of our activities to the government.

Still, I do love my dog.  If you’re a dog lover but you’re as worried as I am that all pets are spies, do what I did and adopt an incompetent dog that can’t read or write.

  • Underwear

I prefer loose, free-flowing undies or absent that, just going commando as opposed to tight underwear.  Call me crazy, but I’ve crunched the numbers and have convinced myself that it is possible that tight underpants holding my testicles too close to my legs could cause said testicles to heat up to the point where they spontaneously combust, thus turning me into a eunuch.

Don’t even get me started on how much I worry about how terrible the life of a eunuch would be.

Do you worry about dumb things too, 3.5 readers? Share your totally ridiculous, entirely unfounded concerns in the comments!

 

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