Till Death gives us a Part

I’m feeling rusty & restless. Even the words bounce around now as if they have their own little kids will and just don’t want to be quieted down.

Cool, I’m not.

I know how I’m supposed to be. Not quite cool but not quite uncool either, a golden middle of sorts. Fuck Horace for that by the way. Fuck him with a stick. Probably he’ll like it. Most probably the stick won’t mind either. Sure beats lying around waiting to be given a beating with.

What I wanted to do was talk about death.

I’ll give her a capital even. Come on, Death, leave these other fuckers alone. They seem so busy and all bouncing around like they have nothing more than their little kids will to lead them around. What do I hear them whispering about? Pension, pension, pension. Oddball concept that. I looked into it, Mrs. D., it is healthy time you invest now in order to get a lot of unhealthy time back later. You don’t get it, D.? Me neither, but let’s explore it given you got time with everybody pushing you out indefinitely. Has to be hard on you as well; but, oh no, nobody thinks about the D-man’s point of view. Well I do, D., I do think about your point of view all the time even if those suckers tell me it’s a mad-hat thing to do.

I’m so a mad hat. Please put me on Maître D. You’ll look nice in me, you really will. Would be so fun, let’s bring first a smile to those other mad hatters who hate every minute of this bloody thing called life. I mean, any decent recipe tells you how long it will take about but, life, hell no, life needs to be lived to its full which means they have to fear you D. and make you look like something scary; something only these horror-minded sons of bitches could come up with. Yeah, you look sulky and I do understand you. I mean why the fucking fuck would you prolong life in terror and agony. You are D. and you just want it to be done with, that is your role and all the bloody misery in your run-up isn’t any more related to you than waking is related to sleep.

But I shan’t take you too long, you have business D. and I’m not yet it as I gather from the baby face you’re wearing. Let me use this occasion to specify some wishes. When you come for me, come as a long haired dude or better as a band of heavy metal chicks, scantily clad and all. I’m not going to deny I love my cliché’s but don’t overdo it and focus on the music. Let it rip, heavy and slow and make sure to wait until my head is banging, then turn me into a cockroach and call me K. Yeah, I’d so like that. It gets me hard as fuck. “Life is pain and piss, nothing I will really miss.” If you don’t know it, just google it and play that, it’ll make my day as if it finally is my last one. And I say ‘when you come’ but you hate all this surprise stuff as much as I do – D. I’m going to tell these kids, OK? – because D. is autistic like hell. An anti-social fuck is D. but she’s all nice and mellow inside. So it will that I will make it so that we will all be able to make a nice on-line appointment with the D-ster. I’m not going to even try to make sense  at this point but you’ll get my drift; no more surprises and last gasp dying wishes and regrets and all that shit that just makes the D. nervous like hell. Just BetterCallDeath.com with a nice check list and AI powered algorithmic support to make sure nothing is forgotten except yourself. Then D flies in at the pre-arranged time taking the requested form – D likes a dress-up if she’s spared the whole skeleton-reaper stuff which is so unbefitting – and in the tunnel without exit you go into blissful oblivion or – if that is what you like – as another D. bringing the joy of a full stop to every sentence whether long-winded or short and to the point. Oh, D, we’re going places, we really are.

Pension was the topic. Man I’m going hot now, why should I stop? You can stop if you like but D. and I are going to stay for a while and gossip about you. D. and I are a team now and we’re coming for you – team Pension will die. We’re all about going with the flow.

Pension is a Pain. Pee pee Pain. P. sits with you indefinitely, holds your hand whispering how it’s all unfair that there’s never enough P. because others are taking your P. away. Coming of age is what happens when P. first sits by your side, making sure you’re busy earning as much P. as you can get – P. is the Über-capitalist. If you don’t chase P. away you dry out, wit first, sex right after and then your I because P. doesn’t like I the way D. likes it, no sir, ‘I”s get in the way of P. ‘I”s are stubborn and P. has his own mind about things. P. likes averages and planning and playing it safe like parking the bus without the sting of breaking out when you can. P. goes for a draw. I hate P. and so does D. because D. – no shit – prefers to meet interesting people instead of desiccated individuals who look like raisons and taste like sour grapes. D. prefers to do the cha-cha-cha with a lovely lady who still has some spunk instead of having been spread thinly over god knows how many empty years. P. doesn’t care a bit about surprise death, it’s part of the calculation and he doesn’t whine about the injustice of it all and so – he says – shouldn’t we.

The point of P. is P. P. convinces us we are individuals in order that we can better serve the collective.

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