Sometimes a Kodiak bear will drop by. He brought me a diet soda.
This morning someone pointed out to me that feeding tubes are the new black. The pope’s getting one, and so is Jerry Falwell. If I get one, I’ll never have to leave the couch. I guess I would also need a catheter and a colostomy, but the bear should have no problem changing me and occasionally rotating me. Wouldn’t want a PBJ to get stuck under a fold. Although come to think of it, the feeding tube probably would not accomodate a sandwich. That would be too bad, because I really like sandwiches of all sorts.
Internet, let it be known that I wish to be killed as needed. Hangnail? Bad haircut? Put me out of my misery! Don’t even think about putting me on TV in muu muu. Just wheel me out onto the lanai and let me expire with dignity, watching Golden Girls reruns as you serve me a mango daiquiri laced with downers. I asked Mr. H “You’d kill me, right, baby?” He pledged to smother me with a pillow in a satin case. Heather also offered to kill me, and of course I’d trip over her plug any day. That’s love, people.
My dad e-mailed me last week to say he’s making an effort to die on the job because his pension will be larger if he does. That 72-year-old bastard climbs eight flights of stairs twice a day. Sadly, this physical exercise will probably prolong his life, but I really appreciate the hustle.