I Now Pronounce You Dead

Editor's Note: For the first time ever I'm turning over the blog to a guest blogger, a character called Death. I've been familiar with Death for quite a while, having met him back when he came for Grandma and Grandpa, and of course my first dog Eggard. I don't know that he will say anything offensive, but it's worth cautioning you, and exculpating myself by declining credit or blame for anything too edgy. All statements and opinions are those of Death, and do not necessarily -- I'll just say they definitely do not -- reflect the views of me or this blog.

I now turn it over to Death...

Death -- Thank you for that warm welcome. Yes, I certainly remember coming for your precious Eggard. You were something like seven or eight years old, and, as I recall, you cried your eyes out. I remember watching over you as you buried him down by the fence. It was quite a touching sight, which is why I let your other dogs all live to a ripe old age.

Editor -- Hold on, wait a second, before you go any farther. It's not exactly true that my other dogs all lived to a ripe old age. Perhaps you remember Fritz, the dog I had only a week, having gotten him at the Rescue League. You gave him a major attack of the worms and he crawled under the stairs and died. You came for him after one damned week, one week! Excuse me, I'm not done... Then there was Curly, surely not in a ripe old age. I had him what? A year, a year and a half at the most, and someone ran over him; you were right on the scene to snatch him up. And that's not all. What about Frankie? Who choked to death on a chain. I didn't usually chain him up, but because I had to go out of town to visit someone at the hospital, whom you also took that same week, you came by to choke my dog and take him, too!

Death -- Are you going to let me write this column or not? I'm sorry about your dogs. I had you confused with someone less worthy. Plus, since they all go to Heaven, what do you care?

Editor -- OK, but I still haven't wracked my brain to remember the other pets there might've been. But since you say you had me confused with some other guy, I guess I'll let it go. So we'll chalk it up, we'll call it even.

Death -- Fine, I can live with that.

-- Death's column begins now -- 

Look out, dear reader, I'm coming for you and yours. If not today, then someday. Be on the lookout, because I'd love to meet you, and I'm sure you feel likewise about me. But even if not ... [LOL].

I've been thinking about you, yes, you in particular. Of course I know you're reading this. You're actually a rare person in that respect. The editor of this blog showed me his readership stats. They're puny. He gets around 100 weird hits a day, mostly from Russian gambling sites that aren't even actual readers. He doesn't know why they keep coming. Then there's about five posts he has (the biggest seeming to be one of his posts on Strongheart dog food, speaking of dogs) that everyone else hits. But the semi-daily posts only get something like 10 hits, seriously. And you just happen to be one of them. So you're one in 10, obviously I'm talking to you directly. You're going to die, I'm coming for you ... very, very soon.

What's your big offense? you ask. Surely it wasn't that I read this blog. No, of course not. I was meaning to come after you already; you just happen to be one of the very rare individuals who are getting advance warning. That's lucky. For which, in my opinion, you ought to be glad. Because look at it this way, now you have time to prepare. You can tell your loved ones, you can settle your affairs. If I were you, I would check with the editor of this blog, because he always needs money. Since he provided the opportunity for this open forum, you could show your appreciation for the advance notice by willing him all your property.

Editor -- I'm sorry, I meant that you had full reign over the blog, Death, but please don't bring me into the picture. I honestly don't want to have anything to do with the property of my 10 readers. It is very much my preference -- I insist on it -- that they will their property to their family and loved ones. They are the ones it rightly belongs to, unless, as may be true, their kids are a bunch of miserable snots -- riding skateboards and getting tattoos -- then naturally I would appreciate the portions that would otherwise go to them.

Death -- So you have your scruples, eh? I can accept that. Please let me continue ...

I haven't got that much more to say, except, again, to give warning. And to let you know basically how it's going to happen. For a couple of you it's going to be a terrible car accident. I'll be there, pluck your souls from the scene, and we'll be off before anyone knows what happened. For a couple of you, I have a medical emergency lined up, specifically a heart attack for one, and bleeding hemorrhoids for another. Out of the 10 readers, I believe each of you will know who you are. But look on the bright side, you won't have to put up anymore with nagging about exercise for the one, and for the other with that terrible itch.

When I come to visit you, no one will see me but you yourself, and I will have only one thing to say as I swing my scythe -- that's what I call that big sharp cutter thing I carry, very hard to spell. And that's, "I now pronounce you ... dead."

Editor -- Thank you, Death, for those good words. I appreciate your time, knowing that you have a lot of appointments to keep. And to my readers, let me just say, as far as I know, this blog is "For Entertainment Purposes Only." I don't really think you're going to die. But just to be on the safe side, please drive carefully, get your heart checked, and take good care of your bottom. Don't strain.