You know what I hate about death? Dying.
Basically, we human beings are just rotting meat on a skeleton. All seven billion of us.
Even Steve Jobs—he just died you know. The rich die the same as the poor. They just get fancier funerals.
You know, when I was a war correspondent during WWII, I saw a lot of guys die. It was nothing like Hollywood – “Saving Private Ryan.” I saw Private Ryans screaming their lungs out as their bloody guts hung out of their bellies. I once saw a body on fire running around – with no head. Can you imagine that? Just like a chicken with its head cut off.
People use that expression all the time, but how many people have actually seen a chicken running around with its head cut off?
Personally, I use a Smith-Corona Model 102A typewriter. Have since WWII. The “x” sticks so I avoid words that have the letter “x” in them. It’s not as easy as it sounds. But in my day a writer was expected to know a little about the language.
Now we have personal computers to do our typing for us. We expect our computers to do everything for us. Even think for us.
No wonder the kids can’t read. Don’t blame me. Thank Steve Jobs.
I’ve never taken up texting, but I sure see a lot of people doing it. Walking down the sidewalk. Sitting in the park. It’s a beautiful day and they don’t even notice the ducks walking in a line down to the pond. I used to read a book to my children. Make Way for Ducklings. A policeman helped the ducklings cross the street.
You wouldn’t see that nowadays. The police have a union now. And everyone else is too busy texting.
Have you ever smelt a duckling that’s been run over. It doesn’t smell very good. Especially after a couple days. The streetcleaners won’t touch it -that’s the job of Animal Control.
You guessed it – unions.
But once that smell of death gets in your nasal cavities, it’s hard to get rid of. I was a correspondent during WWII. Boy, did I smell it then.
That’s what I like about my Smith-Corona. The smell. Especially after I put on a new ribbon. Actually I don’t put on the ribbon myself. My secretary Gladys does that for me. She finds the ribbons somewhere. Who knows? Chinatown?
Actually, Gladys, god rest her soul, has been dead for thirty years. CBS pays somebody to change the ribbon on my typewriter. I’m sure he’s a member of a union. The Typewriter-Ribbon-Changers Local 5205.
I forget where Gladys is buried. I didn’t go to the funeral. I was pissed off at her for some reason. But I sent a card. I typed it on my Smith-Corona. But I never got anything back. I’m not sure that Gladys had any family.
Gladys was what we used to call a “working woman.” It wasn’t a putdown. She worked and she was a woman. I don’t understand all this feminist fuss.
But she’s dead now and I’m dead too. I can’t get the horrible stench of death out of my nasal cavity. I suppose the decay process takes a while. I probably should have been buried with my Smith-Corona. With a brand new ribbon.
I should have added that to the Will, but I kept putting it off, putting it off. It was just a little thing I was going to get round to but never did.
Did you ever realize how the overwhelming stench of death makes you wish you hadn’t put off those little things? I’m dead now and I sure do.