Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Arrangements
In the morning, I had a stomach ache. By late afternoon, after consulting the Internet for details about my condition, it was clear I would be dead within twenty-four hours. What I'd thought was only a stomach ache was actually a combination of colon cancer, hernia, appendicitis, and parasites from sushi. I don't eat sushi, but I'd recently been in a restaurant that served sushi, so I must have breathed the little bastards in. Optimists rarely admit it, but the world is full of tiny beasts lying in wait, anticipating the moment they can pounce and eat you from the inside out. Used car salesmen and telemarketers leap to mind. I decided to start making arrangements. I called a local funeral home and began explaining my situation as soon as the secretary picked up the phone. "I'm going to die soon," I told her. "I'm very sorry to hear that," she empathized. I checked my watch. "I probably only have a few more hours. Do you suppose formaldehyde kills parasites from sushi?" "I suppose it would," she said. "Good," I said. "I want the little fuckers to pay for what they did to me." "Would you like to speak to one of the funeral directors?" I checked my watch again and sighed. "No time. What do you have on special this week?" "On special?" "Anything with free flowers? Discounted casket? Maybe a magician?" "A magician?" "Yeah," I said. "He could make me disappear." I started to get excited. "That would be cool." "We don't offer services with magicians," she said. "Maybe you should speak with a director." "What about clowns?" I asked. The silence on the other end of the line made it apparent I'd have to clarify my position. "I'd rather not have a service with everyone crying," I explained. "It's such a downer. The only guests I want to make miserable are the damned parasites." "I really think you should speak with a director," she said. "Fireworks," I said. "And a rock band." "We don't offer that either," she said. "So everything you have is morose?" I asked, deeply disappointed. She paused. "Yes," she said. "Forget it then," I said. I felt tired and frustrated, and I had a pounding headache. It was either stress, or a late stage brain tumor. Possibly a stroke. I'd have to check the Internet to make sure. "I guess I'll just hire my own damn clown," I said, scanning the yellow pages in front of me. I was surprised there was no heading for "Funeral Clowns." "Do you want to speak to a director?" she asked. "Is he a clown?" She wasn't sure how to answer. I let her off the hook. "No time for that," I said, yawning. "The time has almost come. I have to go lie down." "My condolences," she said. "Thanks," I said. I hung up. I went into the bedroom to wait for the end. This was my punishment for wasting my life. Punishment for playing too many video games and watching too much TV, and not enough time spent helping the homeless and actively working for world peace. If only I could start again, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep. I wouldn't waste a single moment. When I woke up, the stomach ache was gone and I'd forgotten I'd been sick. I ordered a pepperoni pizza, drank beer, and watched Alien on cable.
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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