David Raffin
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It was nice in the clouds. But for the ear-splitting din. That terrible din. The sound of a horn resounding. Unrehearsed.
An angel approached another.
“Did you blow the vuvuzela horn?” asked the approaching angel.
“Not I!” said the angel holding the vuvuzela horn.
“You know if the horn blows it’s the beginning of the end.”
“How well I know! It’s a big thing to blow the horn. And you can’t practice because you can’t blow the horn. It’s so aggravating.”
“You blew the vuvuzela horn, didn’t you?”
“I did not. All I’m saying is, what will an unrehearsed horn do? No one really knows.”
“It will be the end of all things.”
“No, it will be the beginning of the end of all things. Who knows what form that will take?”
“I heard that horn blow.”
“We’re wasting a lot of time standing here arguing about who blew what.”
The approaching angel just stared at the other angel, who was still holding the horn.
“For the last time, I didn’t blow it.”
