Predicting My Death
Tonight at work, a co-worker told me that she no longer bought plastic tupperware because of dangers from the tupperware debris melding with food. Without thinking, I said, “Well, we all have to die of something.” Yes, apparently I’m that guy. That douchey guy.
When people say that, they aren’t really thinking about it. I like to think we all hope for the best when it comes to death. To be old and fat, surrounded by loved ones in a ginormous mansion. Or to go out Hefner-style, dying because your heart just can’t handle any more sex with Scarlett Johansen. (God bless Ryan Reynolds, but Blake Lively is a down-grade. I’d be lucky to date Blake Lively’s 87-year old Honduran housekeeper, but still.) My mind keeps flashing to one item when I think of my death:
No clue why. That would seriously suck, right? I don’t lead a very active lifestyle, so unless Chodie Foster grows thumbs and learns to wield a mighty axe I’m probably safe. However, to pay for my douche-dom for ever saying that phrase in conversation, I’ve decided to dig into the crystal ball and predict just how my fatal flesh wound will occur.
There’s a messenger, Boris, who shows up to my office every once in a while. Boris strikes fear into my heart. I haven’t been afraid of someone so much since I saw Doink the Clown on WWE Raw as a child. This guy is directly out of bad guy central casting. He has sunken eyes and a DEEP Russian-accent. He utters broken english and might be saying the sweetest things, but all I hear is, “Hello, my name is Boris. I’ve come to hack you up into tiny bits and use your collarbone as my new backscratcher. Before I begin, who do I speak to about getting my parking validated?” Don’t let me forget to mention, Boris has 3 fingers on his left hand and 4 on his right, and he has thick green veins across his face! I’m convinced he’s ex-KGB and James Bond poisoned him just enough to piss him off, sending him to the states to kill innocent rednecks with ham hands.
I have a feeling that one night I’ll be walking to my car in an empty parking garage. I’ll be feeling guilty, because someone would have left Popeye’s Chicken in the break room, and i will have eaten most of it. (If I’m going to die in this scenario, I’m going to be well fed.) I won’t be watching my surroundings, because the Popeyes will have my stomach doing backflips, begging for death or a return to outhouses. As I make it to my car, I’ll spot one of the black cats who live in our parking structure sleeping on my hood. Once I shoo that bastard off, there Boris will be, axe in nubby hand. I forgot to validate his parking! I deserve what I have coming.
Due to 25 years of loyal WWE viewing and weak birdy arms, my first instinct will be to put him in a full nelson. No dice, Boris just chopped off my left arm. No big deal, that arm actually died back in 1995 due to nonuse. He and my left arm can rot in hell! I’ll take off on a dead sprint. That will work for about 20 feet. After that, I’ll be so winded that I’ll beg for a swift death. Boris will happily oblige. Good luck with your new back scratcher you 2 bit Bond villain.
I hope I’m wrong. I hope I wake up tomorrow to a few missed calls from Scarlett Johansson, but for some reason, all I think of when I think about death is Boris’ spindly green veins looking down at me. Sorry if tonight’s post has been a bummer. These are the weird ways that I entertain myself these days.
Paul knows that he will die on the toilet. In about 14 minutes.