Copyright by Theolonius McTavish 2004. All rights reserved.

There are a few things that you might be tempted to say, if you had chance, (especially if you’re a fly on a wall in proverbial “Garden of Eden”).

Speaking of flies, here are some choice lines you wish Adam might have told Eve before chomping into that fateful apple on what appears to have been another perfectly twee day in paradise.

-- I don’t do “bobbing for apples”!

-- Let's share guilt.

-- You know I hate “Little green apples in summertime”, so play something else!

-- Before we get down to business -- when was your last dental check-up?

-- Not now, I’m busy killing bugs, worms, and Trojan Horses in my frigging PC.

-- I can’t imagine why you think I’d want to read your new diet book, "How to Be Happy on 500 Calories or Less a Day – Lessons From A Tart With A Heart".

-- If eating an apple a day keeps doctor away, I wonder if eating a hippo will keep taxman off our backs?

-- Maybe Martha Stewart can send us her favorite applesauce recipe from slammer.

-- I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “Johnny Appleseed” doesn’t live here!

-- If an apple doesn’t fall far from tree, would you mind picking it up because my back’s killing me.

My grandmother believed in dreams. The most important part of her night were dreams that visited her. She usually indulged in several dreams during any given night.

Upon rising in morning, and before her breakfast coffee, grandmother always checked her "dream book" for interpretation of her latest dream.

The dream book was alphabetized, enabling her to look up meaning of her dream. If grandmother had a dream about apples, for instance, she would look up apples in her book and decipher meaning of her recent nocturnal reverie.

In some ways, my grandmother was superstitious. If a dog barked under a window at midnight, someone was going to die, and other equally credulous ramblings. As a youth, I always envied grandmother's dreams. I wish I had her dream book now.

However, back to my dream.

In my dream, I walked into a sportsman's store and I can't seem to remember name of it. The store was filled with all kinds of sporting goods and I remember looking around for some time.

Eventually, a man approached me and asked if he could help me.

"Can I get me a huntin' license here?" I found myself saying.

"Sure," salesman chirped. "Walk this way, please."

In my best imitation of John Wayne, I sauntered behind salesman to a counter. Above counter, I remember, a sign read . . . actually, signs don't read . . . sign said . . . no, signs do not speak . . . on sign was printed word, LICENSE.

The salesman, now behind counter, opened a large book and began leafing through pages. Without looking up he queried in monotone, "What will you be hunting for, sir?"

This caught me by surprise. I wasn't exactly prepared for this. I mumbled something to effect of, what is in season right now?

"Well," salesman stammered putting pencil in his mouth in a meditative pose, "the only thing in season right now are politicians. You want a license to hunt politicians?"

This, as you can imagine, gave me pause for thought. I've hunted many things through years. My left sock, my car keys, a book in my library that I just knew was there, but never in my life have I even had inclination to hunt for politicians.