David's Harp: Sell me, burn me

They call me Chametz. I don’t get to the gym very often; I’m kind of a couch potato. Actually, I’m an “in between the couch sectional” potato. Sure, I can be grainy, grimy, boxed and bagged, but I’m mostly in the cracks, crevices and crannies. I foment, ferment, leaven, rise, bloat and bellow; and I don’t clean up after myself. I’m the bread and butter of the house and I’m the pomp and plump of the party. I’m never the first to leave; I’m really hard to get rid of. Some call me shmutzik; some call me crumby. I can really get to you, I go in and under; I encircle, envelope and encrust. I’m sometimes a loner and hard to find, but I do have my moments when I am a parasite; I latch on. And I don’t like to work much. I like to play games: Hide and Go Seek, Peek-A-Boo, Where’s Waldo. You may scrub me and scour me, but I’m still around to tickle with a feather. I’ll tell you a little secret. Even after you’ve washed, sold and burned me, I’m not gone. You still have more cleaning to do.

I am sated in those who are full of themselves. I hide in the ego and I am concealed in the character. I am attached to chitchat and glued to gossip. I bond to the braggart and stick to the stuck-up. I’m buried in the bully and affix to the obnoxious. I breed in the rude and disguise in the discourteous. Good luck trying to bless me away so easily; I am baked into the pores of those who walk and talk and ogle and google and smear and shmear and grab and gab and self-center and yente.

You can try to sell me and burn me but contracts and ashes are not the antidote to a toxic temperament. You will have to search deep within your property and find the fiber of fairness and dispose of your diluted disposition. Even if I am scraped to a sixtieth I will exist. I am an alliteration of anti-social, sarcastic, cynical, sardonic, surly, sorry, uncivil syllables that fasten to the gum of the mouth of the lips that choose to speak with a bad tongue, Lashon Harah. Your candle and wooden spoon are useless utensils. You will need a lighthouse and a steel knife. Bread and Cheerios, penne and cookies are child’s play. Catch me if you can, and make me ownerless and like the dust of the earth. Passover is approaching. Search for me, search for me. The treasure map ends in a reservoir of reflection; but it begins with the mirror. Search. Good luck, my name is Chometz.