Dead Sure
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Dead is okay, but getting dead is a big no-no.
_____________________________________________________________________
I hate dying.
I do not mind the idea of being dead, but I hate the path we have to take to get there. I know what you are going to say; I have three kids and so I have said it often enough myself.
“I hate cabbage (or broccoli, etc.).”
“Just try it,” said with a sort of resigned patience.
“No! I hate it.”
“Just try some.” Still holding myself in check although I can feel my face flushing.
“I don’t need to try it: I know I hate cabbage.”
“I have put a tiny wee tottie bit on my fork; just taste it.” I am trying to cajole but there is a definite edge to my voice and I can feel my control slipping.
“I’ll be sick if you make me try it.”
“You won’t be sick. Open your mouth! If you don’t try it you’re banned from telly for the rest of the day!”
“I don’t like telly anymore.”
So it is a bit inconsistent for me to say I hate dying when I have not even tried it but I have seen people dying and it clearly gives them no pleasure at all. The fruits of a lifetime of experience make me totally, absolutely certain that I hate dying. I do not need to try it; I just know I hate it! I am totally sure that it will make me sick; I emphatically do not need to just have a taste of it, and you can chuck the telly out the window for all I care!
I can face being dead with equanimity. It cannot be all that bad although I do worry that it will be like the aftermath of an amputation. People complain of itching and pain where the dear departed limb used to be. It would be a bit tough if you woke up in heaven still with a touch of sciatica in your incorporeal bum.
The only other thing that bothers me about death is that I will not be around for the eulogies. I just know that after I have gone, people will be queuing up to say really sincere nice things about me. They will all be astonished that they were unable to recognise my true worth when I was still among them.
“I’ll never forgive myself for being nasty to him the last time we met,” a snivelling crone avers.
Who are you kidding? You were nasty to me every time we met: in fact, you’re nasty to everybody!
Then it occurred to me that we could kill, if you will pardon the expression, two birds with one stone. Instead of triggering fulsome praise by actually dying perhaps I could announce that I was about to die. Everyone could get to say all the nice things to my face without the risk of me borrowing money from them on the strength of their good opinion of me. It would certainly take my mind off dying just as sugar can disguise the taste of nasty medicine.
You would have to have doctors checking your diagnosis, of course; otherwise I know that I would announce my imminent demise every time I got a bit depressed so I could gloat over the praise my announcement of approaching dissolution would engender. The government might have to introduce legislation to limit terminal illnesses to no more than two or three per person - we all know people who think they are dying when they get a head cold. It would have to be a free vote, of course, since we would not want the business of dying to be sullied by mud-slinging party politics.
Naturally, some of the old clichés would have to be reworded: ‘Never speak ill of the terminally ill’, for instance. There will be some pedants who will argue that we all, being born of woman, have but a short time to live so we should not speak ill of anyone, ever. It would never cross their narrow minds that malicious gossip about our fellows is the very essence of contented living. A shared interest in mis-calling neighbours and family (especially family) keeps many a relationship intact after the embers are cold enough to safely put in a paper bag.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Dead is okay, but getting dead is a big no-no.
_____________________________________________________________________
I hate dying.
I do not mind the idea of being dead, but I hate the path we have to take to get there. I know what you are going to say; I have three kids and so I have said it often enough myself.
“I hate cabbage (or broccoli, etc.).”
“Just try it,” said with a sort of resigned patience.
“No! I hate it.”
“Just try some.” Still holding myself in check although I can feel my face flushing.
“I don’t need to try it: I know I hate cabbage.”
“I have put a tiny wee tottie bit on my fork; just taste it.” I am trying to cajole but there is a definite edge to my voice and I can feel my control slipping.
“I’ll be sick if you make me try it.”
“You won’t be sick. Open your mouth! If you don’t try it you’re banned from telly for the rest of the day!”
“I don’t like telly anymore.”
So it is a bit inconsistent for me to say I hate dying when I have not even tried it but I have seen people dying and it clearly gives them no pleasure at all. The fruits of a lifetime of experience make me totally, absolutely certain that I hate dying. I do not need to try it; I just know I hate it! I am totally sure that it will make me sick; I emphatically do not need to just have a taste of it, and you can chuck the telly out the window for all I care!
I can face being dead with equanimity. It cannot be all that bad although I do worry that it will be like the aftermath of an amputation. People complain of itching and pain where the dear departed limb used to be. It would be a bit tough if you woke up in heaven still with a touch of sciatica in your incorporeal bum.
The only other thing that bothers me about death is that I will not be around for the eulogies. I just know that after I have gone, people will be queuing up to say really sincere nice things about me. They will all be astonished that they were unable to recognise my true worth when I was still among them.
“I’ll never forgive myself for being nasty to him the last time we met,” a snivelling crone avers.
Who are you kidding? You were nasty to me every time we met: in fact, you’re nasty to everybody!
Then it occurred to me that we could kill, if you will pardon the expression, two birds with one stone. Instead of triggering fulsome praise by actually dying perhaps I could announce that I was about to die. Everyone could get to say all the nice things to my face without the risk of me borrowing money from them on the strength of their good opinion of me. It would certainly take my mind off dying just as sugar can disguise the taste of nasty medicine.
You would have to have doctors checking your diagnosis, of course; otherwise I know that I would announce my imminent demise every time I got a bit depressed so I could gloat over the praise my announcement of approaching dissolution would engender. The government might have to introduce legislation to limit terminal illnesses to no more than two or three per person - we all know people who think they are dying when they get a head cold. It would have to be a free vote, of course, since we would not want the business of dying to be sullied by mud-slinging party politics.
Naturally, some of the old clichés would have to be reworded: ‘Never speak ill of the terminally ill’, for instance. There will be some pedants who will argue that we all, being born of woman, have but a short time to live so we should not speak ill of anyone, ever. It would never cross their narrow minds that malicious gossip about our fellows is the very essence of contented living. A shared interest in mis-calling neighbours and family (especially family) keeps many a relationship intact after the embers are cold enough to safely put in a paper bag.
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.