The other night TLW (The Little Woman) and I were talking about my demise. The cardiologist has to make up his mind which procedure to use to clear a blockage in my carotid arteries. Will he go medication or will he go stent or will he just slit my throat and dig out the blockage.
My feeling is that he should slit my throat, and TLW would like to assist him.
|RIP-we wish we could say he was a good man.|
“Well, if I die, I die, I’m not going to worry about it.”
“Have you decided how you want to go?”
“Yes, the slit throat has a lot of possibilities and probably will require the most cleaning up, that employs nurses and maintenance men, good for the economy. Besides, if I go I want to come back and haunt people.”
“Oh1 Please don’t haunt me, I’ve been married to you for 41 years!”
“That’s exactly the kind of talk that makes me want to haunt you.”
Of course, since she went back to work, she is not up to the latest daily chores that need to be done, like what day to put me on the curb for collection. My feeling is Monday is such a drag, but there is no collection of any kind, a good day for a party, Tuesday is garbage day, she could droop me over the large black can in a black plastic lawn bag, the can says 152, Wednesday is re-cycle day, bottle and cans, and newspapers, not really a good day for me, Thursday holds the most promise. Thursdays they don’t collect anything, she could lay me out, I don’t have to share the day with any town collections at the curb, she could throw a lawn party, and Friday they can come and collect me. Then you have the whole weekend to get over the fuss.
Planning my funeral will not be easy. First I want a turntable that goes around with a mechanical hand the waves bye-bye. I want a card in my breast pocket that says: “I hate when this happens!” and I want a kneeler that people go to kneel on and I pop up, they stand and I go back down.
My last will and testament was all taken care of years ago, she already has it all, and I leave to my kids advice, don’t ask for anything, you ain’t getting it. To mom, she will get whatever money is in my wallet for a new set of wooden spoons to replace the ones she broke on my head. I’ve already arranged with my phone company to route all the sales calls I’ve been getting directly to my coffin. (I will finally get even with the bastards)
You may think this is not funny, talking like this, but get over it, it is. Besides, when I’m gone, you will have the last laugh since I won’t be getting what I want anyway.