Glenn has always been a Brussel Sprout. Or at least as long as he can remember he remembers being a Brussel Sprout – for the years before his memories coalesce into something vivid, he trusts that he was then, too, a Brussel Sprout as he is now.
Worth noting he us not a cartoon appropriation of a Brussel Sprout – no eyes stare forth from between his green layers, and there is no convenient flap of vegetation from which he can pour forth his consciousness as speech. Nor has he ears through which others could laud him for his health properties, for how tasty he is fried with bacon, or for others to chastise him and tell him how his kind were the bain of every childhood Winter being force fed boiled brethren of his despite all protestations that the Geneva convention must eventually outlaw such behaviour.
Glenn can roll.
At some he must have been plucked from the stem where other Brussel Sprouts were neatly lined up alongside him.
But whereas tradition dictates that at that point a Sprout must remain still and be conveyed from stalk to a container (and depending on whether the field is a patch of a garden, allotment, industro-agriculture or the like) pass through various hands, machines, devices, transporters and more until eventually a kitchen is arrived at.
From there the aforementioned buttering, baconing and frying, boiling and complaining or another fate befalls the sprout.
Glenn chose a different path – he rolled, and continued so for as long as he felt he could. Biology dictates that within Glenn there is no heart that struggles for bumping blood and oxygen around a system in which there also resides no lungs to receive such oxygen. So the moment Glenn stopped his rolling was purely by choice rather than through fatigue or incapability of continuing.
He paused some hours here – and some regarded him with curiosity – man and beast alike. The latters’ curiosity was piqued the more – with sniffing nostrils taking in Glenn’s particular perfume and an occasional tongue or a lip testing to see if that perfume would be better sampled internally rather than externally.
But all eventually passed. Some left comments behind as they walked past. Most were of the culinary persuasion, and Glenn would surely have become most bored of the repetition of opinions and counterviews, which numbered at 3 or 4 at the most, but came from the mouths of 30 or 40 people at least.
But it was not boredom that eventually spurred Glenn back to his rolling – as we have already observed, his biology does not lend auditory interactions with the outside world to this particular sprout. So on he rolled at his own bequest.
Last I checked, he had not stopped again yet. We shall wait to see when next Glenn chooses to pause in his traversing the world. We shall wait to see if any new opinions of his flavour or preparation have arisen.
But until then, keep an eye out for a passing roll of green, and wave a hand to Glenn as he passes by. Just remember mind – having no eyes to see or hands to wave, his lack of acknowledgement at your greeting or returning of such social graces is no slight on his part. But were he to have such abilities, rest assured that Glenn would have no hesitation in a perfunctory but polite not of his Sprouty green head.