It is a tonality of voice that instantly massages one into fireside relaxation/ bedtime fairytale story mode. When he speaks, you will be transported to a world of soothing crackly fires, an innocent warmth,and cozy toes that will yawn with ancient relief. Eternal sedation will become comprehensible to the human spirit. He is fairytale bedtime grandpa voice and his name is Paul.
Even the sight of Paul will trigger the feeling within that prods relaxation. He carries himself like Homer Simpson but in slow motion, and his eyes capture the intention of deap sea scuba diving off the coast of New Zealand.
The overwhelming contrast of his voice and what he says is what makes Paul pure magic. Following is one typical delusion of grandeur that Paul experiences.
Paul: Hi, I need someone to help me. (instantly I could hear the cool crackly fire, the blankets, and my mood embark into fairytale promises)
Me: Sure. How is it going Paul?
Paul: I just got shot twice with a stun gun by some guy dressed in black on the roof.
Me: Oh. That’s horrible. Where did it hit you?
Paul: Right here in the chest.
Me: You mean right here? (pointing at spot). Does it still hurt?
Paul: No, the pain is all gone now, but you need to help me.
Me: When did all this exactly happen?
Paul: About two minutes ago.
Me: Paul, if you were shot with a stun gun just now, you’d still be in pain. And there are about 40 people outside that would witness this. I’m sure a few of them would notify staff. (By this point, I am partially intoxicated into sleepylands, in the complacent abyss of fireside relaxation, and struggling to fight off the sedative effect of his voice.)
Paul: I’m better now, but you need to help me with the parking lot. (a pause) The Italian mafia is outside. There’s a lot of them this time, and they’re trying to take the cars….All 65 cars. All the cars in the lot are mine. I don’t want them anymore. But I’ll take a cashier’s check right now to cover the value of the cars.
(By this time, I’m hearing Sinatra’s Strangers In the Night, and I envision popping open a bottle of cab wine)
Me: Hmm… I can’t do that for you, Paul…hmmm. I was just out front and I didn’t see any mob looking characters. Plus, one of those cars out there is mine. How about an easter egg chocolate and we’ll have the nurse check out your chest to ensure you were not hit with a stun gun?
(Paul takes the chocolate)
Paul: I knew you couldn’t help me.
(Paul walks away)
His whole life is an abstract fairy-tale of paraniod delussions. Is this from too much tele, drugs, a hard life, a hit in the head? Or is he just like all the rest of us, with our own delusions of grandeur and paranoid scenarios combined with an over-active imagination? After all, do you beleive more than half of what the average person-on-the-street tells you?
On the other hand, it sounds like he’s messing with you to get some chocolate. For him to thank you for the chocolate would admit this trickery. We all need a little love every once in a while.