You be the oxy, I'll be the moron.

Open your eyes.

Your head is heavy. Your mind is swimming in discombobulation. And you don't even know if that's a word.

You don't know if you just woke up from a deadening slumber or if you just started dreaming, but suddenly that's irrelevant. Know why? Because a chainsaw just dropped from the sky into your heavy hands.

You become aware of your surroundings. Either that or they materialize when you look up.

You are standing in a vast field of pyracantha bushes. They are ugly and twisted and vicious and yours is the only clearing you are aware of. The sky is dimming quickly. It's as if a dry storm is rolling over you.

So what do you do? Do you stay in the clearing where you know you are protected from being poked? Do you rev up your chainsaw and start hacking away at the nearest bush? Do you curl up and cry and wish you knew whether discombobulation actually was a word?

I don't know what you'd do. I don't know how many of you followers even live up to your name, so how could I know what you'd do if I can't be sure who you are? So I'll tell you what I'd do. What I do do, I should say.

Saturated in overconfidence, I heft that chainsaw, fiddle until I figure out how to start it, and swing it towards my hostile enemy. After aimlessly attacking the obstacle for a while, I realize that I'm not really getting anywhere. All I've gained is a million miniscule scratches and a sore arm. The incoming storm blocks out the light more and more.

Do I pinch myself awake (or asleep)? Do I set my jaw and keep working at the bushes and discover a pot of gold a few feet on? Do I remember that I came to my senses sitting on a dictionary and hurry to look up the word "discombobulation," thus settling my troubled mind because it is, in fact, a word?

Don't be silly. Of course not. I realize that I have several grenades conveniently tucked cozily inside my coat. So I take them out and start chucking them into the distant bushes.

Progress is a lot quicker now and somehow immensely more satisfying. I traipse the coarse wasteland with a spring in my step and a plethora of pins dangling from my fingers.

Oh, grand grenade. You always show up exactly when I need you to, offer me a broader perspective and never fail in making my life a little more colorful.