I was awakened this morning by my sorry excuse for a menagerie; Roscoe the wonder bunny, and Mollie the mooch. Roscoe is of course a rabbit, and Mollie is part cocker spaniel part poodle bag of fur representing as a dog. I let them wander at night because something about the sound of my possessions being destroyed helps me sleep better. They were standing side by side with their front feet on my blankets. I’m not sure if they were contemplating my demise, but if Roscoe wants me dead Mollie is to big a chicken not to be a co-conspirator.
Have you ever seen a rabbit glaring balefully at you? Its not a pleasant experience. Particularly upon awakening from what can only be described as a persistent vegetative state. Mollie of course was smiling. Its the only expression she has. Whether she is sitting in a mud puddle (her favorite torment), or lying sprawled in overheated misery on the carpet, she smiles. This was even more disconcerting. It was like a mafia hit man grinning as he puts two in your forehead. I’m not sure what was bothering them, but it started my day all wrong.
I spent the day preoccupied with death. My preoccupation was interrupted intermittently by thoughts of rabbit stew, and poodle on a stick. I’ve done it before, but this is the first time it was brought on by two quadrupedal fluff merchants that depend on me for their existence. Man, they get no food tonight.
I’m like, really old, so I have some experience with the tender ministrations of Ms. Death. I know death is female because a male can’t carry a grudge like that. I’ ve lost a sibling, a parent, and oodles of other relatives, to say nothing of the multitudes of friends, workmates, and every other sort of ilk. You never become inured to it, but you learn to cope, and assimilate the lessons learned into how you view death.
I’m personally not looking forward to it. Not so much the death itself, but the manner thereof. I’m absolutely certain at this point that i don’t wish to be tender vittles for a mutt and an overgrown rodent. I can almost hear them discussing whether I was breathing or not. I also don’t wish to pull one of those long, drawn out, see what the doctors can do to keep the carcass among the living deaths. I think if I had my druthers I’d be run over by a fat Bulgarian driving a Snapple truck.
Maybe the next worst thing is the aftermath. You know. what happens after my soul leaves its dessicated, crusty, shrine to the fallibility of the lord our god, Theodore. I named god Theodore. I have the right. I call him Ted when I ask him to hold my coat. I figure since he can’t seem to do anything about famine, war, and genocide I should find a use for him.
So on to the aftermath. What happens after. Generally after we die one of our loved ones calls the mortuary, and our body is prepared for the great beyond. They suck all our fluids out, and pump us full of embalming fluids so that our corpse doesn’t rot and smell up the funeral.
The funeral is generally the next step. This is a get together of those who knew us, and depending on their feelings toward us they are wondering what they were left, if they look fat in this dress, or if the dearly departeds spouse is back on the market, or if a mourning period will ensue.
The next step is to send the remains to the great hereafter. All cultures approach this differently, but an almost universal part of this is wondering whats going to be for lunch after. Be it a flaming barge, cremation, burial, or some other form of interment, disposing of carcasses is hungry work. Also thirsty. I hope my funeral has a free bar.
Whilst all this hoo haa is going on, the dearly departed is faced with an important decision. The dead have a choice. They can either come back to earth in another form (without knowing what that form will be), or they can spend eternity Throwing darts at O’malleys Pub and Eatery. As for me, I’m throwing dartsI already know about the great supreme poobah’s sense of humor vis a vis yours truly, and have no intentions of spending a life time as a rat in a fertilizer factory. He doesn’t care for the hold my coat joke.
So why that title? I came home from golfing one afternoon, and my son was admiring my golf clubs. He was 5 at the time. He came over to me, and with a very serious look that reminds me of the one Roscoe was packing this morning asked me “If you die, do I get your stuff?” Sure kid. Everything but the darts. I’ll be needing those.
this was previously published, but was burned in a purge…i had a request, so bear with me