Death Doesn't Like Me
Today marks the improbable fourth time that I've been on a subway that's been held in the station because someone has had a heart attack/serious medical malady in one of the cars and requires medical attention. Because of this, I am lead to one of two conclusions, though I haven't decided yet which one is true. They are:
1. I am death. This is the least likely one since, as a general rule, people don't regularly drop dead around me. Also, I don't own any long, flowing, black robes and, were I given a scythe to wield, I'd be just as likely to lop off one of my own hands as to not. Furthermore, I haven't found myself playing chess with any Swedish knights (that I can remember) and I've never, ever courted Anthony Hopkins's daughter while looking like Brad Pitt. I'm especially confident about that last one, because I think I'd remember having met Anthony Hopkins. I suppose the final nail in the coffin (as it were) is that I'm a bit of fat ass and Death is, traditionally, skin and bones. Well, mostly bones. Okay, entirely bones. Unless he's masquerading as Brad Pitt. Then he's just dreamy.
Or...
2. The real Death, the one whom I'm most definitely not, lives in the New York area and, for reasons unknown to me, enjoys my being late to work. I'm not sure what I could have done to offend Death; I'm not a cavalier stunt man or an irresponsible junkie or any such person who routinely looks Death square in the eye-sockets and goes "Nyeah, nyeah, nyeah!" I don't even occasionally jump down whole flights of stairs or dart into traffic when I'm in a hurry. I'm just not that daring. The only logical explanation is that I bumped up against Death in a bar and caused him to spill his drink on his tunic and, thus, he's doomed me to a life of subway delays and mildly annoyed bosses. Oh yeah, and a bunch of people got killed by Death to achieve this end too. Which is lame. Man, Death is an asshole.
1. I am death. This is the least likely one since, as a general rule, people don't regularly drop dead around me. Also, I don't own any long, flowing, black robes and, were I given a scythe to wield, I'd be just as likely to lop off one of my own hands as to not. Furthermore, I haven't found myself playing chess with any Swedish knights (that I can remember) and I've never, ever courted Anthony Hopkins's daughter while looking like Brad Pitt. I'm especially confident about that last one, because I think I'd remember having met Anthony Hopkins. I suppose the final nail in the coffin (as it were) is that I'm a bit of fat ass and Death is, traditionally, skin and bones. Well, mostly bones. Okay, entirely bones. Unless he's masquerading as Brad Pitt. Then he's just dreamy.
Or...
2. The real Death, the one whom I'm most definitely not, lives in the New York area and, for reasons unknown to me, enjoys my being late to work. I'm not sure what I could have done to offend Death; I'm not a cavalier stunt man or an irresponsible junkie or any such person who routinely looks Death square in the eye-sockets and goes "Nyeah, nyeah, nyeah!" I don't even occasionally jump down whole flights of stairs or dart into traffic when I'm in a hurry. I'm just not that daring. The only logical explanation is that I bumped up against Death in a bar and caused him to spill his drink on his tunic and, thus, he's doomed me to a life of subway delays and mildly annoyed bosses. Oh yeah, and a bunch of people got killed by Death to achieve this end too. Which is lame. Man, Death is an asshole.
posted by Clinton at 9:14 AM
4 Comments:
Man, you hit the nail right square on the head, you nailhead hitter you:
http://reapin2k.blogspot.com/2006/11/not-again.html
I KNEW IT!!!!!!
I bet he was the sumbitch hoggin' the Tapper machine all night.
I think I may have pissed off death in a similar way once becuase a hobo died at my bus stop once.
No, no... it's cool. When a hobo dies at your bus stop, it means you get three wishes.
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