Column 15

Well, this is it. The end. The big finale. The final curtain. Our jigs are up higher than a humour columnist on Free-Glue-Friday. The horizontally accentuated lady is about to sing. Our proverbial gooses are not only cooked, they are basted with honey, deep-fried in vinegar, stuffed full of glass shards, roasted over plutonium, and topped off with just a hint of peppermint. You see, my oh-so-dear compatriots, I recently discovered a piece of information so devastating, so utterly inescapable that even the Pope, the Fed, and the A-Team combined could not endure it. In short, WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!! (Eventually.)

You can imagine my reaction (or draw it: take your writing utensil and, on my picture, draw a big “O” over the mouth, then shade it in. The Su-Do-Krap ain’t got nothin’ on me!). As you can see, my trepidation knew no bounds (And apparently I spontaneously grew a mustache. Very funny, jerks. Jeez, you ask a person to write on your face once…). Who knew that this “perpetual progression of time” thing had a downside? I mean, here I am, twenty years old, thinking to my self, “Hey, self, don’t worry about ladies or car payments or futures (fiscal or temporal), you’ve only got, like, the rest of forever for that jazz. Go ahead, kick another puppy. Hell, eat a crayon or two. You’re gold, baby!” Now I have to, like, plan and do things and be productive and stuff? Psh, whatever reality! What. Ever.

Worst of all, this completely destroys Operation: Perpetual-No-Pants: (You: Hey, Dylan, put on some pants for God’s sake. Me: I’ll do it later. You: That’s what you said yesterday! Me: Well, is it later yet? You: …What? Me: Exactly.). Now, not only do I have, like, forty (hell, who am I kidding) thirteen years to live, I also have to put on some goddamn pants! I ask you, where’s the justice in that?

To prepare for my lifetime, I decided to watch some inspirational films. Most of them involved, like, kids standing on desks saying stuff in a cave and Nazis and something about cake? Maybe? I don’t know, I kind of got distracted. Anyway, the point is, “Carpe Diem.” Or, in English, “fish die mmm.”

Essentially, I panicked. I mean, apparently, I could, like, die tomorrow? Someone could have told me! I’d better do everything I ever thought I’d do in my life Right Now! So, I got onto an airplane to Brazil where I fell in love with a sixty-eight year old flamenco dancer. We got married in Norway, promptly got divorced, I drunk myself into a stupor, had triple-bypass surgery, developed a brain tumor and schizophrenia, went senile, and finally won bingo (got a lamp or something). It was a busy Thursday.

As I lay in my hospital bed, deranged and in need of a new bedpan, I reflected on a life fully lived as I waited for the clammy handshake of death. Ah, there was that time in Norway, the drunken brawl, bingo… Seemed like only yesterday… which was odd, since it was today. (I called for the nurse again). After about ten minutes of waiting to die, I got bored. I mean, Dylan, paging death, hell-o? It occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t have rushed things. Maybe I didn’t have to stop for death, because it would have stopped for me (Dickinson reference? Anyone?). But just then, I had yet another heart attack (see: deep-fried goose), and as I passed towards eternity, my last piece of comfort was the knowledge that I died just as I’d lived: without pants.