File under Weird-encidence: Bridgette linked to a Prospector’s donkey story in an interview about gaming. Here is the whole original post, but I quote the relevant bit below.
There’s a story about a pair of donkeys tied to a hitching post in a frontier town. One is the pet of a little girl, who rides it every day and feeds it carrots. The other is a prospector’s donkey, loaded to the gills with ore, equipment, and food. This second donkey’s back is bent from the weight it has carried for years. The first donkey looks at the second and says, “That’s quite a load you got there!” The second donkey say[s], “What load?”
I re-Googled, using the word PROSPECTOR, and found a book with the Donkey Story in it. Crazily enough, the donkey story is ALSO found in a Stephen King novel. Cue the Twilight Zone Theme. You like it. It likes you. This is from The Dead Zone:
Two donkeys meet at a hitching rail in a western town. One of them is a town donkey with nothing on his back but a saddle. The other is a prospector’s donkey, loaded down with packs, camping and cooking gear, and four fifty-pound sacks of ore. His back is bent into a concertina shape from the weight. The town donkey says, That’s quite a load you got there. And the prospector’s donkey says, What load?
This Donkey Story that I heard in a sermon and that six of you found on various blogs and in an interview and in another sermon, all slightly different, is ALSO in a Stephen King book.
Now this is a chicken/egg (or perhaps 7-Up Slogan/Novella) problem. Did King make it up and has it entered the world of sermons and blogs and internet gaming arguments as a folktale because King is so ubiquitous, or did King find it and bend it to his purposes?
Also, I love him. I just LOVE him. Do you know how many of my novels reference King books? Thalia in TGWSS references The STAND more than once. In Backseat Saints, King’s Eye of the Dragon is the story library book that gets re-stolen.
Meanwhile, in other animal news, I’ve been working very, very hard to take better care of the animal my brain rides around in. AKA My body.
I’m trying to put a lot of fruit in it, to escort it to yoga for meditation and movement, to put in a little less sugar and a little less bourbon, and to ONLY let it watch HGTV if it is simultaneously paddling an elliptical at the YMCA.
It is important to be nice to it because I live in it. I am it. Taking care of it lowers my VERY HIGH Mental Illness Number by making my brain parts dump a less tempestuous storm of hormones into my blood parts—-in short, I am happier internally AND more pleasant externally when I eat right and exercise.
But last night, I was churning and frothing and stressing out about every terrible thing that could possibly happen, ever. I could not shut it down. I was tossing and flopping, trying to sleep with my brain inventing horrific scenarios that might happen to those I love best, envisioning terrible outcomes for myself and all those I love.
The dogs, longsuffering, stared up at me from the foot of the bed, wishing I would settle already, as they had to prep for their busy daytime napping schedule with a good night of solid sleep.
Unable to turn my brain off, I stomped downstairs and threw 100 million corn chips on a plate, drenched them in cheese and taco sauce, then nuked the whole thing until the cheese melted. I dragged the plate back to my bed and began crunching at it sourly, trying to drug myself into torpor with a load of fat and salt.
I ate about four bites before reason kicked in.
I was undermining myself and my long range goals for a crap plate of improvised crap nachos. If I was going to SPLURGE, fine, but I was not going to take CRAPPY STALE-ISH CORN CHIPS as some kind of deep fried medication for my sad wittle feewings. If I was going to eat a load of fat and salt, it should DARN well be something wonderful and WORTH the calories.
I was going to throw them out, but OH the longing, drooling looks of hope and desperateness coming from the foot of the bed moved my heart. Beloveds, I put the nachos down the dog-sposals. Yes. ALL of them.
THEN THE DOGS FARTED ALL NIGHT.
I slept, if you can call it that, in a noxious palpably green cloud of poisonous nacho-flavored dog fartage.
MORAL: Junk food WILL kill you, one way or another.