Despite my being obvious Emperor material in the Marcus Aurelius mold, if, and I stress if, I had been born into Roman slavery then the job of food taster slave would've been the best case scenario for me.
I'm not really cut out for heavy manual labor with my bad back. And I wouldn't last more than two minutes in the Arena as they'd surely hand me that ineffective net and trident combination. Sampling a plate of lark's tongue in aspic, however, would not be a problem. Neither would gulping down a mouthful of Falernum or two.
Sure, you'd run the risk of being poisoned, I guess. But drinking from an actual honest-to-God poisoned chalice? What a way to go. If you're going to die in servitude, the drama of clasping your throat with bulging eyes while dropping a golden goblet which clatters to the marble floor is certainly a spectacular exit for a nobody.
And even if you're lucky enough to never be poisoned, you can always milk the moment of food and drink tasting for all it's worth. A dramatic pause and worried expression after swallowing no doubt provided a great deal of amusement for the slave in question. It's fun to be the center of attention, after all, even if you'll never see the wild woods of Gaul again.
What if the peoples of antiquity were wise to include "grave goods" in the tombs of their loved ones? I'd hate to think of my dearly departed marooned on the Other Side without a bowl of wheat and a jug of wine to sustain them for all eternity. Yet that's distinctly possible. Heaven might be full of mendicant Americans, buried with nothing but a shroud, begging for crumbs from well-provided-for ancient Assyrians and Egyptians. I wonder what the cuneiform for "Buddy can you spare a dime" is?
We don't even bother to offer a few coins for Charon the ferryman these days, either, which seems rather shortsighted and tightfisted considering the consequences. Apparently, those poor souls who cannot pay the boat fare are doomed to wander the desolate shores for one hundred years. So I hope the Lord of the Underworld has built an untolled bridge across the rivers of Hades by now. God knows trying to swim across the Styx and Acheron must be worse than snorkeling through a third world sewer.
This is why my Will contains instructions to bury me with a can of cashew nuts, a chunk of Gouda, three bottles of Margaux, freshly ground coffee, my favorite books, and an army of GI Joe action figures in case I need to defend my grave goods from mournful shades foolish enough to be laid to rest without a picnic basket. Obviously, I will gladly share my Elysian bounty with readers of this blog, although I assume you will all be equipped with your own afterlife goody bags anyway if you've read this post. Cheers!
Jeff Twaddle has rightfully been called a hero for saving that child's life. He richly deserves such public acclaim for his courageous and selfless actions in the face of almost insurmountable odds. But the same Jeff Twaddle also left a really snide two-star review of my rustic cottage Beach Getaway listing, so he's not all that great.
Jeff Twaddle is obviously a Jekyll and Hyde character. On the one hand, he's a daredevil humanitarian willingly risking his own life for the sake of the others. On the other hand, he's a deeply flawed and immensely petty Internet troll who will write downright lies and nonsense to destroy my small vacation rental business.
I was reminded of reading the revelatory and extremely depressing biography of my favorite clown, Mr. Bungle. Here was a red-nosed entertainer who had brought pleasure to millions, especially me, beneath the Big Top. Yet in private he was a heavy drinker, an insatiable polyamorist, a serial bankrupt, and a member of at least three Satanic covens where he would exchange his big circus shoes and frizzy orange wig for cloven hooves and a pair of goat horns. And it was not only his nose that was red when celebrating these unholy black Sabbaths, as he would paint his entire face and body red to play the role of Satan, a dark, unhappy role he coveted more than that of lovable Mr. Bungle it seems.
Still, Satanic play-acting in your spare time is not as bad Jeff Twaddle's loathsome public deception. I tried to "out" the sneaky rat at the ticker tape parade that was held in Twaddle's honor downtown. So what if he ran into a burning building to save some crybaby kid's life? I yelled. He also complains about finding a little bit of moldy grout in the bathroom even though most normal people wouldn't be bothered by it. That's who Jeff Twaddle really is most of the time. He's only Batman once in a blue moon.
Alas, my protestations of Twaddle truth fell on deaf ears. I guess people want their heroes. I can only hope that Jeff Twaddle has been built up only to be knocked down at a future date. He will go on vacation again and leave another bad review on Beach Getaway. Then that will be two of us who know the real Jeff Twaddle. No doubt there are others our there already. Our voices will be heard one day.
Browsers in the esoterica aisles of their local bookstores will be well aware of the surfeit of so-called lost wisdom available in paperback form. The covers of these books are often decorated with illuminated crystal skulls or Stonehenge silhouetted against an especially vivid sunrise, covers so garish and ostentatious that the secret wisdom contained therein is unlikely to be mislaid again.
Which raises the question: if the original possessors of this lost wisdom were so wise how did they manage to lose their wisdom in the first place? I can only imagine they must have been antiquity's equivalent of the proverbial absent-minded professors of our own time. Imagine priests and sages well versed in the arcane knowledge of the Gods but easily distracted by flute-players and dancing maidens.
Imagine you're studying wisdom in the desert, pause for a second to locate the source of a pretty tune floating on the breeze, then return your attention to the wisdom only to discover it's been irretrievably buried by the Sands of Time while you were listening to the music. If only the ancient world had been equipped with mass-market printing presses and a group of mercenary graphic designers instead of papyrus and overworked scribes.