I, have been pondering.
Recently, an annoying occurrence, the nature of which is of no particular importance and really doesn’t matter here, caused me to mutter to myself (as I often do), “Please Lord, ...just kill me.” This in turn caused me to contemplate my own mortality, it’s meaning, and the randomness of the circumstances that will eventually bring it all to an end, and so, I began to ponder...If I die of a heart attack...
...I hope it’s a real good one. A real chest clutcher. Lurching around the house, or even better, someplace public, like a fancy restaurant, knocking over tables and lamps, face turning purple, eyes like ping pong balls, arms flailing, pointing at my heart, maybe even grabbing somebody, ideally a random stranger or perhaps that neighbor I’ve never liked, or best of all the jackass sitting in front of me on the plane who just HAD to suddenly recline their seat so they could take an all important 10 minute nap on a 30 minute flight. And there should also be lots of moaning and wailing and maybe even falling down some stairs just for effect.
And if I die of a gunshot wound, I hope it’s a real dramatic one, with lots of noise and muzzle flashes and blue smoke and ricochets and guys wearing all kinds of hats, including fedoras, getting temporarily blinded by gunpowder and flying chips of cement. The kind of shooting where everybody stops and looks and dives under the nearest table and people are screaming and grabbing their kids, and people hiding under tables get ketchup dripped on them that makes them think they’ve been hit. And I hope that nobody really gets hit by a bullet, but if they do, I hope it’s the asshole sitting in front of me on the plane who just HAD to suddenly recline their seat so they could take an all important TEN MINUTE NAP on a THIRTY MINUTE flight!
And if someday I die from choking, I hope it’s on an expensive piece of Kobe beef that somebody else is paying for (like a client), and that it’s only one or two bites into the meal so that the rest of the meal is totally ruined for everybody else in the place, especially the snobs across the way and the delusional guy at the next table who has brought his 39 year old girlfriend out for a big night so he can propose, partly because he knows no one else will ever have sex with him but mostly because he wants to get on her health plan. And furthermore I hope I panic and run around the dining room or maybe the first class section of the airplane cabin hysterically but silently (because I am choking after all) slapping everybody I see until finally somebody finally gets up out of their needlessly reclined seat to try and give me the Heimlich maneuver, which they fail at because they’re so stupid that they keep trying to do it backwards, you know...face to face, and there I am, dribbling out little bits of au jus from the sides of my mouth, eyes crossed, until finally just before I go I crap my pants and pee myself while they’re holding me, and then because of my massive middle aged girth she falls back trapped under me into her unnecessarily reclined seat, which is reclined because she just HAD TO TAKE A GOD DAMN NAP, BITCH!
Yes!
And if, per chance, I die of food poisoning, I’d love it to be on a Sunday morning at a brunch at a hoity-toity downtown hotel; one of those asinine romantic “theme” brunches jam packed with yuppie trolls and sycophantic desk assistants and hedge fund wannabes or maybe it should be at The Country Buffet, or maybe at a Republican fundraiser while sitting at a prominent table with a room full of gluttons staring at me with a heaping plate of food in front of me so that everybody there knows that, just like them, I tried a little bit too much of everything. But if it doesn’t happen there, then I hope it happens on a 737 at 30,000 feet with me trapped by the beverage cart into my coach class undersized middle seat so that I can’t get out, so that I have no last act available to me but to projectile barf, up and over and on to the person in the seat in front of me. ...The seat that is conveniently, ...and ironically, ...and selfishly, ...AND UNNECESSARILY.........RECLINED!!!
Then again, maybe I’ll fall off a cliff. And that could be cool too, as long as it’s a really huge, huge, Elvis Presley “Fun In Acapulco” kind of cliff, like 200’ high and perched right over a tiny little nude beach where people who don’t have a life go to get naked because it’s the only chance they’ll likely ever have to get naked in front of other people, and SPLAT!...there I land, slamming the sand and sending shock waves through the seaweed and the cellulite and seriously injuring and ruining the vacation of the ass lick who at that exact moment just HAD to recline her beach chair, right into my trajectory. HA! Just like she HAD to recline that airplane seat spilling my drink and jamming my laptop into my solar plexus, just so she could take a freakin TEN MINUTE NAP!!! ON A FREAKIN THIRTY MINUTE FLIGHT! And as she lays there all sun burned and stunned, I hope the last thing she sees before she blacks out, is my arm, sticking up out of the sand, extending my middle finger, in it’s full and upright position.
You know what?
I’m starting to think this essay isn’t about mortality. Maybe it's about seating. Or naps. Or courtesy. Or a lap full of ice cubes and cola.
...Or, maybe, it's *&%@#$% JACKASSES!!! WHO HAVE TO TAKE A TEN MINUTE NAP ON A THIRTY MINUTE FLIGHT!!!
I'll ponder that.
© 2011 J. Mark Rast
Recently, an annoying occurrence, the nature of which is of no particular importance and really doesn’t matter here, caused me to mutter to myself (as I often do), “Please Lord, ...just kill me.” This in turn caused me to contemplate my own mortality, it’s meaning, and the randomness of the circumstances that will eventually bring it all to an end, and so, I began to ponder...If I die of a heart attack...
...I hope it’s a real good one. A real chest clutcher. Lurching around the house, or even better, someplace public, like a fancy restaurant, knocking over tables and lamps, face turning purple, eyes like ping pong balls, arms flailing, pointing at my heart, maybe even grabbing somebody, ideally a random stranger or perhaps that neighbor I’ve never liked, or best of all the jackass sitting in front of me on the plane who just HAD to suddenly recline their seat so they could take an all important 10 minute nap on a 30 minute flight. And there should also be lots of moaning and wailing and maybe even falling down some stairs just for effect.
And if I die of a gunshot wound, I hope it’s a real dramatic one, with lots of noise and muzzle flashes and blue smoke and ricochets and guys wearing all kinds of hats, including fedoras, getting temporarily blinded by gunpowder and flying chips of cement. The kind of shooting where everybody stops and looks and dives under the nearest table and people are screaming and grabbing their kids, and people hiding under tables get ketchup dripped on them that makes them think they’ve been hit. And I hope that nobody really gets hit by a bullet, but if they do, I hope it’s the asshole sitting in front of me on the plane who just HAD to suddenly recline their seat so they could take an all important TEN MINUTE NAP on a THIRTY MINUTE flight!
And if someday I die from choking, I hope it’s on an expensive piece of Kobe beef that somebody else is paying for (like a client), and that it’s only one or two bites into the meal so that the rest of the meal is totally ruined for everybody else in the place, especially the snobs across the way and the delusional guy at the next table who has brought his 39 year old girlfriend out for a big night so he can propose, partly because he knows no one else will ever have sex with him but mostly because he wants to get on her health plan. And furthermore I hope I panic and run around the dining room or maybe the first class section of the airplane cabin hysterically but silently (because I am choking after all) slapping everybody I see until finally somebody finally gets up out of their needlessly reclined seat to try and give me the Heimlich maneuver, which they fail at because they’re so stupid that they keep trying to do it backwards, you know...face to face, and there I am, dribbling out little bits of au jus from the sides of my mouth, eyes crossed, until finally just before I go I crap my pants and pee myself while they’re holding me, and then because of my massive middle aged girth she falls back trapped under me into her unnecessarily reclined seat, which is reclined because she just HAD TO TAKE A GOD DAMN NAP, BITCH!
Yes!
And if, per chance, I die of food poisoning, I’d love it to be on a Sunday morning at a brunch at a hoity-toity downtown hotel; one of those asinine romantic “theme” brunches jam packed with yuppie trolls and sycophantic desk assistants and hedge fund wannabes or maybe it should be at The Country Buffet, or maybe at a Republican fundraiser while sitting at a prominent table with a room full of gluttons staring at me with a heaping plate of food in front of me so that everybody there knows that, just like them, I tried a little bit too much of everything. But if it doesn’t happen there, then I hope it happens on a 737 at 30,000 feet with me trapped by the beverage cart into my coach class undersized middle seat so that I can’t get out, so that I have no last act available to me but to projectile barf, up and over and on to the person in the seat in front of me. ...The seat that is conveniently, ...and ironically, ...and selfishly, ...AND UNNECESSARILY.........RECLINED!!!
Then again, maybe I’ll fall off a cliff. And that could be cool too, as long as it’s a really huge, huge, Elvis Presley “Fun In Acapulco” kind of cliff, like 200’ high and perched right over a tiny little nude beach where people who don’t have a life go to get naked because it’s the only chance they’ll likely ever have to get naked in front of other people, and SPLAT!...there I land, slamming the sand and sending shock waves through the seaweed and the cellulite and seriously injuring and ruining the vacation of the ass lick who at that exact moment just HAD to recline her beach chair, right into my trajectory. HA! Just like she HAD to recline that airplane seat spilling my drink and jamming my laptop into my solar plexus, just so she could take a freakin TEN MINUTE NAP!!! ON A FREAKIN THIRTY MINUTE FLIGHT! And as she lays there all sun burned and stunned, I hope the last thing she sees before she blacks out, is my arm, sticking up out of the sand, extending my middle finger, in it’s full and upright position.
You know what?
I’m starting to think this essay isn’t about mortality. Maybe it's about seating. Or naps. Or courtesy. Or a lap full of ice cubes and cola.
...Or, maybe, it's *&%@#$% JACKASSES!!! WHO HAVE TO TAKE A TEN MINUTE NAP ON A THIRTY MINUTE FLIGHT!!!
I'll ponder that.
© 2011 J. Mark Rast
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